THE 


SIEGE    OF    CALAIS 


AND   OTHER  POEMS. 

. 


BY 

REV.  A.  L.  FRISBIE. 


DES  MOINES: 
MILLS  &  COMPANY,  PUBLISHERS. 

1880. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congrats  In  the  /ear  1879,  by 

MILLS  *  COMPANY, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  nt  Washington. 


MILL*   A    COMPANY, 
•TllIOrrPER*    iKO    PRIHTERH. 


CONTENTS. 


MM 

THE  SIEGE  or  CALAIS, 5 

DEACON  KENT  IN  POLITICS 49 

THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN,      ....    80 

ECHOES  or  WAR 92 

MY  FRIENDS, 105 

VlGINTENNlAL  POEM, 123 

SIGHT  THROUGH  TEARS, 142 

THE  MOTHER'S  SONG, 145 

TEMPTATION, 149 

THE  EIVER  TO  THE  NIGHT 153 

OUTLOOK 160 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CALAIS. 


A     WHOLE  year  long  besiegers   pressed 
J-~A_       The   town   of  Calais   and  distressed 
The   city   folk  with   war's   alarms. 
Through   days   and  nights   the   men-at-arms 
Watched   from   the  walls   the    English   host 
The  rough   invaders   of  their  coast  — 
Who   followed  Edward's   plume   and   lance 
To  spoil  and   sack  and   slay  in   France. 

Now  came  the   sally   from   the  gates  — 
The  desperate  struggle   with   the  Fates  — 
Which   madly   strove   to   thrust   away 
The  ruin  which  before   them   lay. 

Then   in   return  came   swift  attack, 
Hurling   the   beaten   squadrons  back 
Upon   the   town.       Quick   to    the   wall 


6  THE   SIEGE  OF  CALAIS. 

Clomb   archers,  slingers,   lancers;    all 
In   whose   thin   arms   the   pith   remained 
To   wield   a  weapon   battle    stained  — 
For   wife  and   child   and  native   town, 
To   strike   the  hated   English   down. 

So   back  and  forth  the  strife  had  rolled 
Through   summer's    green   and  autumn's   gold. 
And  winter's  chill  and  spring's  soft   breath  — 
A  year  of  weariness   and  death. 
No   ships,  full  freighted  over  seas, 
Brought   sustenance   to  bustling  quays. 
No  produce-laden  wagon   trains 
Rolled  in  to   swell  the   farmer's  gains 
And  satisfy   hard  hunger's   pains. 

The  harried  fields,   the  driven  kine, 
The  fat   of  France,   the  cheering  wine, 
All   that   the  land   in  peace   had   stored, 
Gave   comfort-  then   to   England's   lord; 
And   at  his   feet    the   white- winged   ships, 
Obedient  to   his  haughty   lips, 


THE   SIEGE   OF   CALAIS. 

Ill  sight  of  famished   townsmen's   eyes 
Laid  down   the   coveted   supplies. 

The   weary  watchmen   on   the   towers 
Wore  out  the   tedious,    torturing  hours, 
Peering  through  storm  and  shadows   dim 
To  see,  across   the  southern  rim 
Of  the  horizon,   Philip   come; 
Sifted   the  gales   for   sound  of  drum 
Telling   of  succor  just   at  hand; 
Or  turned  from   the  unfriendly   land 
To   scan   the  sea,   if  haply   thence 
The  cloud  of  God's   deliverance 
Might  rise  and   blacken  with  His   wrath, 
To   sweep,   resistless   in   its  path, 
Through  Edward's   camp. 

Nor  eye   nor  ear 

Caught  sight  or  sound  of  Philip  near; 
And  from   the   sea  no   rising  cloud 
Gave   token   that  Jehovah   bowed 
The  heavens   to   come   to   their  defense, 


8  THE   SIEGE  OF  CALAIS. 

With  fully   roused   Omnipotence. 

And   famine   came  —  grim,  greedy,   gaunt, 
To   reign   in   Calais.       Spectral    waut 
Spread    his   black  wings  above  the   town, 
And  ever  glared   more  fiercely  down 
On   all   alike  —  on  soldier,   priest, 
On   prince   and  beggar.       At   the   breast, 
The  babe  whose  birth   the   mother  blest, 
Puny   and  starving  asked   again 
For  one  poor  drop,   and  asked  in   vain! 
The   mother's  heart   within  her  died; 
The  fountain   of  her   tears  was   dried  — 
And   she   beheld,   with   stony  gaze, 
The  childish  flock   of  happier  days, 
With  sharpened  face  arid  wolfish  greed 
Go  mad   with  hunger's  horrid  need. 
On  soldier  forms,   enfeebled,   frail, 
Sat  loosely  now   the  coats   of  mail. 
The  swords,   oft  drawn   in   battles  gained, 
Their   edge   and   temper  yet   retained; 


THE  SIEGE  OF  CALAIS. 

The   battle-ax   and  massive   mace 
Lay   ready   in   accustomed  place, 
But   where,  alas!   were   brawny   thews 
The   sword  and  battle-ax   to   use? 
The  archer's   hand,   a  shrunken  thing, 
Scarce  able  more   to   strain   the   string 
And  bend   the  bow,   hung  useless   down  — 
So   sore  was  famine  in   the   town. 

The  end  was   near.       Not   English   skill 
Nor  valor  had   o'ercome   the   will 
To   fight,   but  famine,   dread   ally 
Of  Edward,   won   the  victory. 

But  first,   ere  yet   upon   the  wall 
The  white  flag  floated,   one  and   all, 
Led   by  the  voice   of  faithful  priest, 
A  last   appeal   to   Heaven   addressed. 
To   Him   who   breaks   no   bruised  reed, 
Nor  coldly  looks   on  hearts   that  bleed, 
Arose   the   agonizing  prayer 
Of  faith,  just   sinking   in   despair. 


10  THE   SIEGE   OF  CALAIS. 

At  sound   of  tolling  matin   bells 
All,   save   the  faithful   sentinels, 
Put   useless   swords   and   spears   away  — 
Uniting  heart  and  voice  to   lay 
Their  trouble   at   the  feet   of  Him 
At  whose  command   the  cherubim 
Go   forth,  in  glorious   might,   to   save 
The  suffering,   tried   and  fainting  brave. 

In  the  cathedral's   stately  pile 
Close  kneeling,  filling  nave  and   aisle, 
"Where  light  from   siow  consuming  wicks 
Fell  on  the  lifted   crucifix, 
They  meekly  bowed  before   the   shrine 
Of  Him,   the  human  and  divine, 
"Whom  they  adored.      To  guardian   saints 
Rose  sad   appealings   and  complaints; 
And  chief,   to  her  whose  mother  breast 
The  infant  Jesus  once  had  pressed, 
The  much-enduring  women    cried 
With   faith   still    pleading   though   denied. 


THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  11 

And   thus,   to   Christ,   the   Son  of  man, 
The  fervent   supplication    ran: 

[A  general  petition  of  the  people  massed  in  the  cathedral.] 

"O  Jesu,  whose  love  we  most  faithfully    cherish, 
Behold  us  in  pity,  we  perish,   we  perish! 
Thou  hast  walked  with  us  men  and   taken  our 

nature  — 

Thou  feelest  the  sorrow  of  each  smitten  creature. 
Were  not  kingdom  and  power  and  glory  all 

given 

To  Thee,  sublime  ruler  of  earth  and  of  heaven? 
Thou,  holding  the  stars,  loosing  bands  of  Orion, 
Thy  beloved  canst  save  from  the  power  of  the 

lion! 
The  thorn-crown  Thou  worest,   so  grievous    and 

gory— 
To  the  cross  Thou  didst  give  Thy  greatness  and 

glory 
To  ransom   the  lost  and    recover  the  sinning — 


12  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

To  vanquish  the  curse  of  our  evil  beginning. 
O  Love  of  the  Lord,  art  Thou  loving  no  longer? 
O  Power  of  the  Lord,  are  our  enemies  stronger? 
O  Sword  of  the  Lord,  gleaming,  girded  with 

thunder, 
Smite  our  foes  hip  and  thigh  and  cleave  them 

asunder! 
O     Hand   of     the    Lord,    that    once    scatteredst 

manna, 
Be  opened  once  more  —  wake   the  grateful   Ho- 

sanna! 

O   Jesu,   O  Saviour,  come   now   to  deliver. 
For  succor  to-day  let  us  praise  Thee  foreverl" 

Then,   for  a  little,   all  were  still, 
Waiting  for  sign   of  good   or  ill; 
Waiting   for   proof   that  Jesus   heard 
And  hastened   to   fulfill   his   word 
Of  promise  in   the  ancient   day, 
To   those   who   rich   in   faith   should  pray. 


THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  13 

Then  heavy  hearted,   silent  men 
Took   arms   and  places   once   again, 
Leaving  the   women   grouped   around 
The   Virgin's   shrine.      With   hair   unbound, 
With   haggard   faces,   famine   scarred, 
Aud  woman's   beauty   soiled   and  marred 
By   care   and  fear   and  want   and   grief, 
Those  wives   and   mothers   sought  relief 
Of  her   whose   sinless   motherhood 
Gave   us   the  holy   child   of  God. 

[The  women  appeal  to  the  Virgin  Mary.] 

"  O  Mary,   hail,   thou   Queen   of  Heaven  — 
Mother  of  God,   to  whom   '  tis  given 
With   the   Celestial  powers  to   plead 
For  all   the  faithful   in   their  need. 
Let   the  dear  bulwark   of  thy  prayers — 
Thy  mighty,   interceding  tears, 
Defend  us   from   our  raging  foes  — 
Roll  back  our  overwhelming   woes! 


14  THE   SIEGE   OF    CALAIS. 

Our   sons   and  husbands   vainly   die! 
Lo!    every  burdened   breeze  goes   by 
With  blessings   borne   upon   its   wings 
For  all   the  world   of  living  things  — 
For   thousand  happy   hearts   and   homes; 
Alas!    to  Calais   nothing  comes! 
No  help,  no   cheer,   no   hope,   no   bread, 
No  voice  to   say,   *  Be   comforted ! ' 
No   sign  of  peace  —  no   mercy  more 
For  hearts   fresh  broken   every  hour. 

Threatened   by  new  and   constant  harms, 
Our   children   seek  in   mother  arms 
Protection  which   we   cannot   give. 

But,   Lady,   thou  dost  ever  live 
Close  to   the  heart  of  God;    and   thou 
Canst  always  give.      O   Mary,  now 
Implore  thy  Son  —  all   angels  move 
By   the  dear  urgency  of  love! 

Thou   who   didst  feel   the   infant   hand 
Of  Jesus   on   thy  cheek,   command 


THE   SIEGE   OF    CALAIS.  15 

Some   power   to  help   us   from   on  high! 
Thou   in   whose  bosom   Christ   did   lie, 
Thou   whose  glad   home   in   Nazareth 
Was   filled   with    sweetness   of  His   breath, 
"We  mothers,   now  before  thee  plead  — 
For  homes   and  babes,   O    intercede! 
O   stir  up   Heaven,  our  hearts   to   spare, 
0  gain   us  mercy   through    thy   prayer! 
Sweet  Mary,   mistress   of  our   hopes, 
Come  with   the   shining,   heavenly   troops 
Before  we  die!       O  Mother,   hear! 
Let  signs  from   thee  at  last   appear; 
For  war  and  want  and  pestilence 
Here  long  have  pitched  their  gloomy   tents, 
And  but  for  thee  comes   quick  the   end! 
Mother  of  God!    thy  help   extend!" 

Then   voices  ceased   and   silence   fell 
And  eyes  gazed   upward.       Who   could    tell 
But   Mary   would   fling  oat   the   sign, 
"  I  come  to  you  with   help   divine," 


16  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

Along  the   sky?       Through  her  at   last  — 
The  bitterness  of  death   be  passed? 

On  earth   or   sky   no   sign  appeared; 
No   angel  hosts   their  banners   reared 
Near  by,   or   filled  the  heavenly   arch 
With   sounding  cadence   of  their   march. 

Did   Mary  sleep,   or   Christ,  above? 
Was   there  an   end  of  God's  dear  love? 

And  while  these  cries  were  heavenward  sent, 
A   pitiful   accompaniment 
Of  childish  plaint   swept  past   the   stars, 
For  audience   in   Immortal   ears. 

Like   ghosts   of  voices,  flickering,   thin, 
Pathetic,   as   if  framed   to   win 
Compassion   from   a  heart   of  stone, 
The  children's   cries  addressed   the   throne  — 
Invoked   the   saints   by   loving   names  — 
Arrayed   their   childish   woe   and   claims  — 
Implored   that   blighting  war   might  cease  — 
That   soon   again    in   blithesome  peace 


THE    SIEGE   OF    CALAIS.  17 

The   little  feet    might   lightly   dance 
Upon    the   blooming   soil   of  France 
Beyond   the   walls,    while   wine   and    corn 
Were   poured   from    Plenty's   flowing   horn. 

And  yet   no   sign!       Was   Mercy   dead? 
Was   English   hardness   overhead? 
Was   there   no   dear   and    warlike   saint 
To   note   that  sorrowful    complaint? 
To  haste   in   light   supernal,   pure, 
For  Edward's   swift   discomfiture? 

It   well   might   be    that  soldiers'   prayer 
Should   beat   about   the   wastes   of  air 
And   find   no   answer   from   a   God 
Rejecting   service   stained   with  blood. 

It   might   be   that  because   of  sin 
The   mother's    prayers   should   fail    to   win 
The  Virgin's   melting   heart   to   bless. 
But    what   confusion    and   distress 
When,    to    the   cry   of  innocence 
Responds   no   angel   of  defense  — 
2 


18  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

When    hope   and    courage   built   on    God 
Fall   fainting,   as   upon   the   sod 
The   flowers    bow   down   their   cups   in   vain, 
And   dying   plead   for   summer   rain. 

No   help,    O    God,   from  earth    or   sky  — 
From    Saint   or   Virgin,    or   most    High! 
No  tokens   from   the   sea  or   land 
Of  swift   deliverance   at  hand. 

So   black   and   terrible  despair 
Closed  Calais  round   as   closed   the   air. 

KINO   EDWARD. 

"Now  by  the  rood,  these  beggars  last  too  long! 
Here  like   a  dog  by  hole  of  burrowed   fox 
I've   sat  and  watched  a  year;  and  still  the  game 
Lies   covered   close  while   I  get  stiff  of  joint. 
They've    fought      me      well  —  I'll      even    grant 

them   that, 

And   now   they   sullen   skulk  behind   their    gates 
And   watch   me,   while    I   silent    bide    my   time. 


THE   SIEGE   OF    CALAIS.  19 

But   I   can   wait.       '  Tis   not  our  English  way 
To  play  at  fast  and  loose!      Despite  the  walls 
That    fence    so    well    and    lonor    these    stubborn 

o 

French, 

I'll  have   their   town.       I    have   a  staunch    ally, 
True    to    my   cause,   whose    march    they    cannot 

stay; 

They've   baffled  me  —  they  cannot  baffle  him  ! 
For  Famine  laughs   at  battlemented  wall, 
Nor  ever  yet  in  deepest   moat  was   drowned. 
E'en   though    their    streets    and    building    stones 

were  bread, 

Yet,  soon  or  late,  consuming  mouths  would  make 
An  end   of  all   and   clamor   loud   for   more. 

I'll  have  the  town  and  then  I'll  have  revenge! 
The   months  here  wasted,   the   defeated   plans, 
The   valiant   soldiers   maimed   and   sacrificed 
Call   for   revenge.       The   day   makes    haste;    my 

hand 
Shall   sternly  smite  and  soon  what  famine  leaves, 


20  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

And    these   persistent  knaves   shall   see   and   feel 
The    retributions   which   an   English  king 
Will   mete   to  insolence   and   stubbornness. 

I   hate   these   French!      They   trample   on   my 

rights. 

This   soil   is   mine  by   due   inheritance, 
But   they  hold   fast   to   Philip,   shred   away 
My  provinces   and  flout  me  in  the  face. 
I'll    have    this    France,    but   first    I'll    have    this 

town, 

And  show  their  hare-brained  impudence  what  'tis 
To  play   the   fool   and  pluck   the   lion's    beard ! " 

f  Enter,  hastily,  a  soldier  of  the  guard.] 

"My   Liege,   upon   the  loftiest   tower 
The  white  flag  flies  —  the   looked-for   hour 
Has   come  —  proud   Calais   yields   at   last; 
And  see,   beyond   the  gates  has   passed 
A  cortege  like   a   funeral    band, 
To   seek   for   mercy    at   thy   hand." 


THE   SIEGE   OF   CALAIS.  21 

EDWARD. 

"Well,  let  them  come.  I'll  see  them  at  my  feet 
Crawl  piteous  in  the  dust  aud  hear  them  beg, 
But  mercy  they'll  not  find  in  me.  Too  long 
They've  held  the  town  and  looked  for  Philip's 

aid 

To   send   us  scurrying   to   our  English   ports; 
Too   many   of  my   soldiers   have   they    slain. 
Once,  had   they   asked  for  terms,  it  had  availed; 
But   now   'tis   much    too   late  —  I'll   grind    them 

fine!" 

[Enter  Deputation  from   Calais.] 

"King  Edward,   Calais  yields   to   thee; 
She  sends   us   to  present  her  plea 
For   boon   of   kingly   clemency. 

We,   loyal  to   our  king  of   France, 
Zealous   his   honor   to   enhance, 
Have   waited   long  for   his    advance. 


22  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

We've   stoutly   fought   on   field   and   wall 
For  king  and   home   and  life  and   all 
Men   love  by   dearest   names   to   call. 

Without  avail.  We  fight  no  more; 
Food  fails  where  plenty  was  before, 
And  famine  enters  every  door 

To  hunt  us  like   a  savage   thing. 
We    humbly   our   submission   bring — 
We   seek  the  grace   befits   a   king 

Like   Edward,  whose   illustrious   name 

IB  heralded  by  eager  Fame. 

As   brave   men   beaten,   without   shame 

And  without   fear   we   take   the   place 

Of  suppliants   now   before   thy   face, 

And   seek  a  brave   king's   sovereign   grace. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  23 

EDWABD   (impatiently). 

"Well,  are  ye  done?      'Tis  not  a  whit   too  soon! 

I   want  no   more   of  honied    compliment, 

k  Great  King,'    and    '  brave?   and   '  eager  Fame,' 

and   all 

The  string  of   Frenchmen's  empty  flattery! 
I   am   no   babe   to  change   my   mood  forthwith 
At  pretty   sound   of    tinkling   silver   bell. 
What   care   I   for  your   loyalty   to   France? 
'Twas  naught  but  rank   disloyalty   to   me. 
What   for  your    boasts    that    you    have    bravely 

fought, 

When   all  your   fighting  was   to   baffle   me, 
By  better  right   than   Philip   master   here? 
You're   but   a  pack  of  stiff,   rebellious   knaves! 
You've  kept  me  knocking  at  your  noisome  town 
A   whole  year  long,  and  when  the  balance  turns 
And   you   are    wanting  found,   you   come  to  me. 
And   prate   of  valor   and   of  loyalty, 
And   beg   for   favor   of  my   kingly   soul! 


24  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

Too   late,   iny   smooth-tongued   gentlemen — too 
late; 

Your  score    is    much    too    long.       Our    English 
phlegm, 

Excited   once,  is   not   so   soon    allayed 
By   soothing  poultices  of  oily   words. 

You   want   my   terms?       They   shall   be    short 
and   sharp. 

I'll   let   my   soldiers   loose   upon   your   town; 
I'll  crush   your   walls   like  egg-shells  under  foot, 
And   pull  your   houses  round    about    your   ears; 
I'll   fill   you   with    the   vengeance   you    deserve 
And   sweep   you   swift   into   the   hungry   sea! 
Nor   man   nor  child   nor    woman    shall    be   left, 
Nor   temple's  buttressed    wall    nor    corner-stont, 
To   tell   the   coming   time   where   Calais   was! 
These  are  my  terms — go  tell  them  in  the  town." 

Thus  in   a   passion   Edward   raged 
Like   a   wild   tiger,   newly   caged; 
While,   smit   with   shame,   the   English   lords, 
Astonished,   heard  his   furious   words. 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  25 

And   when   he   ceased,  close  pressing   round, 
Each   knightly   knee   bent   to    the   ground, 
They   claimed   the   soldiers'    right   to   plead 
For  Calais  in   her   hour  of    need. 

"  'Tis   thine,    O   King,   to   give   command ; 
'Tis   ours   to   go   where   points   thy   hand; 
Thine   to   receive   from    Heaven    the   crown. 
Ours   to   maintain    it   e'er   thine   own; 
About   thy   right   and   thee   to   plant 
A   wall   of  living   adamant! 
Thou   knowest   well   it   is   our   wont 
To    brave   the   battle's   bloody   brunt, 
And   He   to   whose   unhindered   ken 
Lie  open   all   the   thoughts   of  men, 
Reads,    writ   on    each   heart's   inmost   core, 
'Edward   and   England,'   evermore. 

As  we   would   save   thee,   sovereign   lord, 
From    thrust   of  lance   or  stroke  of  sword 
By   taking  to   ourselves   the   blow, 
So   would   we   save   thee,   Edward,  now; 


26  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

Save   not   thy  person   but  thy   name — 
Save   from   foul   blot   thy   royal  fame. 
Save   from   thine   anger's   raging  heat 
Thyself  and  all   that   makes  thee   great; 
Would   put  ourselves   across   the  course 
Thy    passion   takes   and   meet   its  force, 
.Rather   than   see   our   English   king 
Reproach   and   shame   enduring   bring 
On   England,   on   himself  and   us. 

It   is  our  right   to   meet  thee   thus; 
To   hold   thy   hand,   thy   heat  repress, 
Till   all  thy   nature's   nobleness 
Forth   shining  from   its   brief  eclipse, 
Shall  light   thy  gracious   brow  and   lips. 

Our  fathers   strove   with    thine   to   turn 
The  evil   tide  of  Bannockburn, 
And   we,   their  sons,   on  land  and   sea 
Have  toiled   and   suffered,  true   to   thee. 
The   scars   of  Cressy's   dear-fought   field 
Thou   knowest   well   are   scarcely  healed, 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  27 

And   we  who   helped   thee   win   that  day, 

For   England's   sake   and   thine   do   pray 

That  thou   will   turn   thy  wrath   away 

From   Calais.       Let   these   Frenchmen   learn 

That   English    hatred   does   not  burn 

Forever!       On   such    men    as   these, 

We   draw   no   sword   e'en   thee  to   please; 

Nor   canst   thou   ask   thy   knights    to   be 

The   ministers   of  butchery! 

Our   foes  are   men   with   bucklers   braced; 

Our   hands    too   near   our   hearts   are   placed 

To   strike   where   there  are  none   to   harm — 

The   child   that   clings   to    mother's  arm, 

The   mother,    the   gray-bearded   sire 

And   famished   men.       Dismiss    thine   ire, 

O,   Knightly  King,   and   ever   be 

The   flower   of  generous   chivalry!" 

EDWAED   (with   mock  deference). 
"Good  masters,  I  have  heard.     Methinks  'tis  time 


28  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

My   crown   were   cut   in   bits   and  passed  around 
To   each   of  you,    that  every  one   might   be 
Some  vulgar  fraction    of  a  king.      'Tis  time 
For  me   to  take  the  place  of  squire  or  groom- 
To   feed    the   swine   of    some  great   gentleman — 
To   act   the   clown    for    some    mirth- loving   lord, 
To   please   his   comrades   and   the    dainty   dames 
With  sparkling  wit,  like  old  ale  kept  on  draught, 
And   take   therefor   my   meager  crust   and   bone, 
When   subjects   say:      'Sir,   King,   we'll  have   it 

thus, 

And  so,   we   will  not  have  it!'      King,  forsooth! 
There   have   been   kings   who'd  waste  no  time  in 

talk 

When  subjects  sought  to  rule.     And  yet,  I  know 
You   brave,  and   loyal    I   would   fain   believe. 
I   do   recall  your   sacriiice   in   arms, 
And   for   this   once  your   arrogance   I'll   pass 
And  partly  grant  your  wish.      But  you  shall  not 
Defraud    me   wholly    of  my   settled    will. 


THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  29 

Shall    I    o'er-look   the   wrong   and   insolence 
These    wretches    have    displayed,    and   once   they 

bend 

The   beggar  knee,  make   haste   to   cry,  '  Enough ! 
1   do   forgive   yon    all  ? '      It   cannot   be. 
It   shall   not   be.       I   swear   it   by  the   rood! 
Go    now,    yon     French — these    are     my    only 

terms; 

Six   men   of  Calais   I    will   have   for   mine. 
On    them    I'll    do    my   will   if    all   the    rest    go 

free ! 

But   mind   you   now.    I'll   have   no   riff-raff    sort, 
But   six    who    tower   above    the    humbler   crowd; 
Who   are   to   Calais  what   the   giant   oaks 
In   forests   are   to   stunted   underbrush. 

Go   send   them    forth    and    then   we'll    talk   of 

peace!" 

[These  terms  told  in  Calais.] 
Loud    pealed   from   stately   tower   the    bell 
In  Calais   like   funereal  knell. 


30  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

And   townsmen    in   the  briefest   space, 

Expectant  filled    the   market   place 

To   learn   their  fate   at   Edward's   hands; 

They  heard,  awe-struck,   his   hard   demands; 

And   each   man   looked   in  other's   face, 

And  each   man   prayed   the   deadly  place 

Of  honor  might   not  be  his  own; 

And   frequent   thoughts   of  Christ,  alone. 

Dying   to   pay   the   matchless   price — 

The   world's   delivering   sacrifice — 

Came   to   that   strangely   questioning   crowd, 

Baptized   into   the  fire   and   cloud. 

All   hearts   were   numb,   all   voices   hushed, 

While   tides   of  new   emotion   rushed 

Tumultuous   o'er  each   manly   soul. 

Who   should   fill  out   the   victim   roll? 
Who  name   the   martyr  list  and   say, 
'Go  you   and   die,   our  ransom    pay! 
While   we  shall   live   to   bless  your  deed 
By   which   our   Calais   shall   be   freed; 


THE   SIEGE   OF    CALAIS.  31 

While   we   shall   build   in   reverent   mood 
Four   monument   of  gratitude, 
And   teach   our   sons    to   distant   days, 
Your  names   to   love,   your   deed   to   praise." 

(Self-devotion.) 
Then    spoke    the    great    souled    Eustace    de   St. 

Pierre : 

"Good     friends,    the    noblest    office     waits    to- 
day 

For   men   to   fill   it.      There's   not   been   the  like 
In   all   the  histories   of  towns   and    wars. 
To   high   ambition   now   the   highest   place 
Is   offered  freely   to   the   man   who   will. 

Now  since  it  must  not  be  that  all  the  folk 
Whom  war  and  want  and  pestilence  have  spared 
Should  meet  the  storm-burst  of  King  Edward's 

wrath 

And     die     at     once,     and     since     we     may     not 
choose 


32  THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

The   men    to    lay   their    heads    upon    the    block 

for  sake 

Of  Calais,    I'll   be   first.      Stripped   to    the   shirt, 
Barefoot   and    with    a   rope   about   my   neck, 
I'll   go   to   Edward.       In   the   battle's  front 
I   would  have   died,   an    offering  for  you    all, 
And   called   it  glorious   death,   and  welcome  too! 
What   more   is    this?      I   will    be   one   of  six. 
Perhaps     the     Lord     whose     love     I     oft     have 

grieved — 

The  Lord  who  died    for  sinners  doomed  to  die- 
Will   count  it   something   that    I   give  my  life 
For  your   dear   sakes   and   readier  forgive." 

A   moment's   pause   and   five   devoted  men 
Stepped   to   his    side— the    list    was    made   com- 
plete 

Of  Calais'   noblest   sons,    self-offered    there, 
To   wear  the   crown    of  holy    martyrdom. 


THE   SIEGE    OF   CALAIS.  33 

[They  come  out  to  Edward.] 
It  was   a  doleful   thing   to    see 

That  strange   procession   come, 
And   England's   rugged   chivalry- 
Stood   wondering  and   dumb 
As   those   six   knights   with   haltered   neck, 

All   clad   in  scantest   dress, 
With   shrunken   limb   and   sunken    cheek 

And   patient  lowliness, 
Passed   on   where   haughty  Edward   stood, 

Obscuring   kingly   grace 
With   angry  look,   disdainful,   proud; 

And   knelt  before  his   face. 
"  Here   at   thy  feet  we   lay    the   keys 

Of  Calais'   castle-gate; 
We   wait,  O   King,  what   thou   shalt   please; 

Thine  is   the  hand   of  fate. 
On   us  let  retribution   come! 

We  yield  us  here   to   die; 

3 


34  THE   SIEGE   OF   CALAIS. 

We   seek  not   to   avert   the   doom 

That   threatens   in   thine   eye. 
If  we   may  serve   sweet   innocence, 

The   mother   and   the   child, 
And   Calais   save,  be  her  defense 

From   carnage  maddening,  wild; 
Then    shall   the   swift   and   fatal   blow 

Our   glad   devotion   prove — 
Ours  be  the  glory  hence   to   go 

The  sacrifice  of  love!" 

So,   ready  for   their  martyr   fate, 
At   Edward's   feet   they  meekly  wait; 
A\Thile   stalwart   men,  inured   to  wars, 
And   seamed   with   frequent   battle-scars, 
Who   through   the   strife   relentless   sped, 
And   looked  unmoved   upon   the   dead 
Piled   on   the  field — stern,  stately  men, 
Grew   pitiful  as   women   then; 
And   eyes  unwet   since   childhood's   years, 
Glistened   with  unfamiliar  tears, 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  35 

Melting   the   soldier's   iron   mood — 
Quench  ing   the   thirst    for   foemen's    blood. 

When   warriors,  streaming  from    the   town, 
Had   flung   the   gage   of  battle   down, 
It   had   been  joy  to   poise   the   lance 
And   headlong   ride — England    on   France! 
It  had   been  joy,  in  towering   wrath, 
With   sword   and    mace   to   clear   the   path — 
To    thrust   and   strike,  to   wound    and   slay. 

But   all    the   battle-wrath   that  day, 
In   noble  ruth   had    died  away; 
And   scarce   an   English   knight   or  lord 
Who   sawr   the   deed   and   heard  the   word 
Of  that   heroic   soul,  St.  Pierre 
And  his   companions,  kneeling  there, 
Who   would   not   quick   have   raised  them   up, 
Freed   them    and    bade   them   go   with    hope 
And   cheer   to   wives   and   homes,  to  bear 
The   glad  news  pealing   on    the   air, 

"  Rejoice!     King  Edward's   royal   grace 


36  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

Discharges  all  and  gives  us   peace; 
The  famished   feeds,  like  God   above, 
Won   by  the   sacrifice   of  love!  " 

But  gentle  pity  made   no   trace 
On  Edward's  hard,  determined   face; 
His   eye   was   lit  by  baleful   fire 
Of  vengeance,  his   supreme   desire, 
And   in   his   soul  no  resting  place 
Was  found  for  blessed   doves  of  peace. 

Must  he  the   huge   affront  forgive 
Of  Calais'  insolence,  reprieve 
These  starveling  six   and   quite  forego 
His   savage  joy  vindictive?     No! 
With   but   a  drop   left   in   the  cup, 
Might   he,  athirst,  not   drink   it   up? 

Why  suffer   Mercy  to    beguile 
Men   of  their   tears  and   manhood,  while 
She   stole   the  harvest   due   the  sword? 
Turned  men    to   women   by  a   word 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  37 

From   beggars   on   their   cringing   knees? 
And  now,  would   rescue   even   these 
Through   tender   qualms — ignoble  theft — 
And   thus,  through  Pity,  would  be   left 
In  English  hands   no  living   thing, 
To  sate   tfie  vengeance  of  a  king! 

So   by  malignant   powers   of  hell 
Inspired,  in   bondage   to   their   spell, 
Darkly  and   madly  reasoned   he; 
Then   stooping,  wrathful,  suddenly, 
He   clutched   the  halters  in   his  hand, 
And  gave   with   thundering   voice   command 
To   lead  the  men   to   instant   death! 

As,  after  winter,  soft   south    breath 
Calls  springing  leaf  and   flower   to    view, 
And   ministry  of  rain   and  dew 
Mysterious   charms   of  life  unfolds; 
So  in   that   hour  o'er  English   souls, 
Like  love   of  Christ    sweet   Pity  swept — 


38  THE    SIEGE    OF    CALMS. 

And  god-like  things  that   long  had    slept, 

By  war's   stern,  wintry  chill    repressed 

And   hidden   deep   in   soldier   breast. 

Awoke   from    sleep — rose   up  from   death 

At  the   caressing  of  her  breath; 

And   desert   souls   burst   into   bloom 

As   though    the   spring   of  God    had    come, 

And    in    the   brightness  of  her   face 

Love's   passion-flowers   and   growths   of  grace 

Came   forth   to  temper   every  trace 

Of  jealous  hate   or   soldier  scorn 

With  sympathy,  divinely  born. 

As,   in   the   northern   atmosphere, 
Wrapped    in   encircling   sunshine   clear, 
The   iceberg  gleams,  but   nowhere  yields 
To  beams   that   warm    and   bless   the   fields, 
So   Edward   like  an   iceberg  stood — 

Another   Shylock,  claiming   blood- 
While    mail-clad    knight    and    veteran    squire 
Melted   in   Pity's  holy  fire. 


THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  39 

[Sir  Walter  Manny  expostulates  with  Edward.] 
"O    King  of  England,  art   thou  king   to-day, 
Or   does  thy  madness   rule   the   day  and  thee? 
O,  wilt   thou   not   restrain   thy  hasty  hand, 
Thy  purpose   alter   and   thy  words   recall? 

Thou    hast    renown    with    just    and    knightly 

men, 

And   good   report,  world-wide,   for   chivalry, 
For   valor  and   for  kingly  nobleness. 

But   if  thy  passion,  like   a  flowing  tide, 
Shall   sweep  thee   on    to   this   extremest   deed, 
And    these    rope-girdled    necks    shall    press    the 

block 

And   feel   the   headsman's   ax   to  satisfy 
Thy  will   unyielding   and   thy  fatal   grudge, 
Then  everywhere   will   fingers   point  the   spot 
On   Edward's   ermine,  which   no   infant   soul 
Should   e'er  outshine  in  whiteness  beautiful; 
And     in    the    speech    of    men     thy    name     will 

stand 


40  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

For  all   that's   hard   and   bitter   in  revenge! 

Yes,  little  kings,  who  could  not  stand  erect 
It'    once   thy   crown    were   set   upon  their  heads, 

Will  treat   their  gossips   to   the  ghastly  tale 
Of  Edward's   cruelty  to   Calais'  men, 

And   hold   thee   up   to  horror   and   reproach! 

And    old    wives,   as    they    croon    the   drowsy 

child, 
Will    mix    thy    name    with    gross     and    fabled 

names 

Of  monsters,  man   devouring,  steeped  in  gore; 
And  thou,  our  King,,  wilt  frighten   infancy, 
The  dreadful   specter   of  the   'Bloody  man!' 

And   on   all  England    there  will  fall  a  shame; 
And   all   thy   knights    will   stammer   when   they 

try 
To  justify  this   purposed   deed   of  thine. 

O   good  my  Liege,  be   king  of  Edward   now; 
O   loose   thy  hand  and   cast   away  the  ropes, 
And   let  the  men   go  free  in  sight   of  France — 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  41 

In   sight   of  God   approving,   over   all. 
So   shall   defamers   hush    their    noisy    tongues; 
So   shall  be   seen    thy  true   and  knightly  soul, 
And  this  day  see  thee  newly  crowned,  A  KING!  " 

EDWAED    (passionately}. 

"'Sdeath,    Master    Walter,    wilt    thou    hold    thy 
tongue? 

Yon  river  butts  itself  against   the  tide, 

And  yet   the   tide   rolls  in.     The   ocean's   might 

Lifts   at  its   back   and  crowds   it   steadfast   on. 

My   purpose    swerves   no    more    than    swerves 
the   tide! 

Thou'st   seen   the  wave  assail  our  English  cliffs, 
Moaning   around    them    as   in   mortal   pain 
And   sprinkling   them  with   briny  tears;  and  yet 
Immovable   the   deep-set   cliffs  abide. 

So   stand   I   moveless  'gainst  the  beating  wave 
Of  sentiment   which   spatters   me  with   tears, 
And   moans   about   me   with    a  doleful   voice, 
Because   I   am    not   weak   and   womanish! 


42  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

Shall   I,   forsooth,   let   Calais   go   scot   tree, 
Unwhipt   for   mighty  damage   she   has   done 
To   English   honor   and   my    kingly    rights, 
While,   from   her   rabble,   miscreant    throng 

I   take   but   six   instead   of  smiting  all? 
And   shall   I   now   surrender   these,   because 
White-livered   knights   too   dainty   are   become 
To   care   for  honor   or   to   punish   wrong? 

I    tell   thee,   man,   thy   begging   is   in    vain! 
And   all   the   soughing   sighs   and  dripping  tears 
That   turn   their   pitiful   artillery 
Against   the   fortress   of  my  settled   will, 

Are    all    for    naught!      I    will    not    spare   these 
six 

And   Calais   too.     There   must  be   recompense 
Made   to   the   sword    and    these    shall   render   it. 

"Headsman,   attend!      These    Frenchmen    lead 

away 

Quick   to   the    block!      I    spurn    them   from    my 
sight! " 


THE   SIEGE   OF   CALAIS.  43 

[Queen  Philippa's  Intercession.] 
Then   Edward's   Queen,   who   near   him   stood, 
In   grace   of  coming   motherhood 
Robed   as   a   priestess— set   apart, 
Enshrined   in   England's   deepest   heart, 
Her   woman   nature   wrung   and    thrilled 
With   sorrow   that   her   lord   self-willed, 
Unyielding,   pitiless   remained, 
And   obstinate   his   wrath   retained; 
Knelt  down   before   him   on   the   sands, 
With   throbbing   soul   and    clasping   hands, 
Like   Him   who   wept   on    Olivet. 
The   roses   of  her   cheeks   were   wet 
With   holier   drops   than    ever  jet 
From    the   sweet   heavens   benignly   fell, 
Or   brimmed    a   cup   at  Jacob's   well. 

"Ah,   Sire,"   she   cried,  "since   o'er   the   sea 
I   came  for  lasting   love   of  thee, 
Came   to   the   sights  and  sounds   of  war, 
To   scenes   which   gentle   souls  abhor, 


44  THE  SIEGE  OF  CALAIS. 

Thou   knowest   well   I   have   not   asked 
A  boon   of  thee — I   have  not   tasked 
Thee   with   my  poor  desires.     But  now 
I   can   withhold  no   more;    and   thou 
Must  hear  me  while   I   intercede 
For   these,   who   in   the   stress   of  need 
Came  freely   here,   to   pay   the  price 
Thou   saidst  for   Calais    might   suffice! 
Whom   now,   divinest   passions  move 
To  die  in   sacrifice  of    love, 
That   others   may   by    them    go   free. 

O  Edward,  as   thou   lovest   me, 
And   by  the  priceless   hope   I  bear 
For   England,  pause,  relent  and  spare! 
Yield   up   thy  purpose  fixed   and   stern! 
Speak  the  glad   word   for   their   return 
To  hearts  all  desolate  and  broke! 

Nay,  by  the  love  of  Him   who   took 
The   crown   of  thorns,  the   bitter  cup, 
The  felon's   cross,  my  King,  give   up 


THE   SIEGE   OF    CALAIS.  45 

Thy  stubborn   will,  thy  lasting   hate! 

Lest,  when   thou   comest   to   the  gate 

That   opens   to   the  undefiled, 

The  penitent   and   reconciled, 

Stained  deeply  with   this  needless   sin, 

No   voice   shall  bid   thee,   'Enter  in!' 

Lest   Christ,  our  Lady's  glorious  Son 

Shall  fail   to  greet   thee   there,  'Well   done!'" 

Her   tears  were  falling  on   the   sand; 
Her  lips  with  kisses  touched   his   hand; 
And   all  his  kingly  pride   seemed   less 
Than   her   o'ercoming  loveliness. 

For  not   the  proudest  human   state, 
Unbending  will   nor  royal  hate, 
But  God's   own   gentleness   makes   great! 

While  low   she   spoke,  the   very  air 
Was   tremulous   with   waves   of  prayer, 
And  angels   with   suspended   wing 
Breathed   softening  influence  o'er   the   king; 
Dear   Mercy's   hand,  unfelt   before, 


46  THE  SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

At   Edward's   heart   unbarred    the   door 
And   let   the   shining   ones   go   in, 
That  day's   blest   victory  to   win. 
He  yielded   in   the   holy  glow 
Of  sweet  compassion — late   let  go 
The  hard   vindictiveness   of  wrath; 
And  bending   to   her  in   the   path, 
He  gave   the  ropes   into   her   hands 
And  said, 

"These   men   wait   thy  commands! 
I  give  them    thee   and    Calais   spare; 
No   sword   of  mine   shall    harm    a    hair 
That   shelter   finds   beneath   the  shield 
Of  thy  dear,  wifely  love.     I   yield 
Thee  all   thy  will — who   could   resist?" 

He  raised   her  up,  her  lips   he   kisr-od, 
While   men,  unused   to    Mercy's   charms, 
Like  lovers   fell   in   others'  arms 
And   cheered   and   laughed;  and   cheered  again 
As  she   called    up   the   kneeling   men, 


THE    SIEGE    OF    CALAIS.  47 

Clad    them   and   fed   with   queenly  o-race, 

And   then,  with   shining,  saintly  face, 

Bade   them   go   home   and   bear   from    her, 

Of  Edward's   bounty  almoner, 

Good   store   of  corn   and   soulful    wine! 

Go   home  to   tell   that  love  divine, 

Though   dwelling   in   a  human   breast — 

By  human  language  half  expressed — 

Had    made  the   sternest   will  relax; 

Cheated   the   headsman's   hungry  ax; 

To  Calais   saved   this   sacrifice, 

Noble,  self-paid   and  passing  price; 

Go  home   and   bid   the   bells   be   rung, 

And   eloquent   Te   Dennis   sung, 

And  clouds   of  fear   and  gloom   give   place 

Before  the  light  of  Mercy's   face; 

And   children   sing   again   in   glee; 

And   Calais,  saved   and  fed   and    tree, 

Unite   in    sounding  jubilee, 


4S  THE   SIEGE    OF    CALAIS. 

To   mark   the   glad,  illustrious  day 
When   wrath   to   gentleness   gave  way; 
When   England's  king,  so   slow   to   move, 
Bowed  plastic   to   a   woman's  love! 


DEACON  KENT  IN  POLITICS. 


^TT'OU  ought  to  have   known  worthy  Jonathan 

Kent; 

A   Deacon   was  he,   and   nobly  content 
He    lived     on     his    farm    with    his    horses    and 

cows 
And    gathered    his   wealth    in    the   track  of   his 

plows. 

He   was   simple,   sincere   and  paraded   no   airs; 
And    if   he    sometimes    was    too     long     in     his 

prayers, 
He     was    never     too     short    in      measures     and 

weight — 

Whoever  was  crooked   the   Deacon  was   straight. 
In   citizen's   duties   he   never   was   lax, 
Nor   told   a  wrong   story   to  lighten   his   tax; 
4 


50  DEACON  KENT  IN  POLITICS. 

And    though   it  might  be  he   divided   a  cent, 
Poor  souls  there  were  plenty  to  tell  you   where 

went 

The  unseen  benefactions  of  Jonathan    Kent. 
He  accepted  the  Gospel  and  law  of  the  Lord- 
Had     an     old-fashioned      way    of    keeping    his 

word — 
Was    homely,  hard  -  handed  and    awkward     and 

prim — 

Made  discord  unearthly  when  singing  a   hymn- 
But  the  angels  all  knew  the  worship  he  meant, 
And  valued  the  singing  of   Jonathan  Kent 
For  love   and   devotion   that   ever   were    in   it. 
Above   feats   of  song  at  ten   dollars   a   minute  ! 
Some  men  have  their  doubts,  but  he  never  had 

'em, 

Of  the  guilt   of  mankind  for   sinning  in  Adam; 
But  while  he  contended   most    bravely   to   win 
The  victory  over  original   sin, 


DEACON  KENT   IN   POLITICS.  51 

The     doubters     tried    hard,    it    would    seem,    to 

atone 
For  exemption   in   Adam   by   sins   of   their  own. 

He  honored  his  wile  with  a  truth  above  flaw, 
And   never   made   sport   of  his   mother-in-law. 

Right  loyal   to   party  he  worked   with   a   will 
For  straight  nominees   the  positions   to   fill, 
But   wasn't   sore   headed   and  ready   to   whine 
And    cry,   "  By  good     right     the     Post-office    is 

mine, 

The   Senatorship,   the   Representative's  place," 
When   somebody   else   was   ahead    in   the  race. 
He  abhorred   the  dark   tricks  of  aces   and  kings, 
The   trippings   fantastic  of  waltzes  and   flings. 
The  swindles   of  jobbers   and  lobbies   and  rings. 
No  eye  on   the   farm,  with   suspicion  and   shock. 
Uneasy    looked     sharp   while    he    "  watered     his 
stock"; 

And    if  ever  he  gave  you  his   promise   to   pay, 
'Twas  a  mortgage   on   all  of   Jonathan   K. 


52  DEACON   KENT  IN    POLITICS. 

Now    it    chanced    that    the    men    who   handle 

the  wires 

Of  political  work,   and   blow   up   the   fires 
Of  eager,   excited,   exultant   campaigns, 
Disturbed   by   the  fear  of   a  loss  of  their  gains, 
Were  looking  about  in   the  corners   and   lanes 
To  find  them  a  man  whom  the  people  would  trust; 
Having  whom   they   might  sing,  "Then   conquer 

we  must, 

Our  leader  is  honest,   our  cause  it  is  just!" 
"With     whom    they   might    echo     the     cry     of 

"Reform!" 

And  rally   the   voters,   a  gathering  swarm, 
To  lift   into   office  a  hero  unknown, 
Who   indeed  should  come  in  by  no  means  alone, 
But  would   bring   in  his   train    the   faithful   and 

few 
Who  found  him  obscure,  brought  him  forth  into 

view, 
And  stirred  up  the  people  to  carry  him  through. 


DEACON  KENT   IN  POLITICS.  53 

So  the  Deacon  beheld,   with  a  strange,  modest 

pride. 
His    own    humble    name    to    the    breeze  floated 

wide 
On      banners     that    waved    from     the     loftiest 

towers ; 

Saw  it  printed  in  colors   and  woven   in  flowers, 
And   borne  by  processions   that  eagerly   lent 
Their  voices    to  glorify  Jonathan   Kent. 

And   the    Deacon    believed,  the    good,   simple 

soul, 
That  the  people,  grown   sick  of  the  rascals  who 

stole 

And  made  themselves  fat  in   all   places  of  trust, 
Had   arisen    in   might   to  hurl   to   the   dust 
The  false   and    the  thieving,   a  pestilent    swarm, 
And   gladden   the  age  .with  the  light  of  reform. 
And   he  thankfully  thought  of  the   hand   of  the 

Lord, 
Bringing  honor  to  them  who  honored   his  word; 


54  DEACON  KENT   IN   POLITICS. 

And   wrought  out  a  speech  which  was  jerky  and 

rough, 

Brim-full  of  hard   logic,   and  figures   enough, 
In   which  he  endeavored   with   care   to    rehearse 
How  things  had   been  going  from  evil    to   worse, 
While  men   plain  and    honest    had    long    stood 

apart 

For  those   who   were   skilled   in  political   art. 
But  now  a   new  day   was    beginning    to   ihuvn, 
And   public   resources,    so   long   overdrawn 
By  leeches   desirous   of  nothing   but  pelf, 
And  caring  for  naught  but  the  gorging   of  self, 
Henceforth    would    be    handled    by   hands    that 

were   clean, 

And    fingers     no    greenbacks    could    slip   in    be- 
tween. 
And   the  good  man,  of  pride   and   vain   glory 

afraid, 

Tried  hard   to   walk    softly   and    keep   down    his 
head, 


DEACON   KENT   IN  POLITICS.  55 

While   with   cheer,   and  with   speech    and    music 

was    blent 

The    name   of    the   citizen,  Jonathan   Kent. 
It  seemed   to  the   Deacon   an   era  of  grace — 
The  Millennium   he  thought  was  coming   apace; 
For  as   oft  as   he  plead    the    cause    of  Reform, 
He   was   sure   to   awaken  a   thundering   storm 
Of  applause  from   the  chaps   who  were  down  at 

the  heel, 

Who  eagerly  watched  for  some  turn  of  the  wheel 

To  give  them  the  places  they   wanted   to   reach; 

And  the   Deacon  supposed  his  straightforward 

speech 

Had  made  them  all  hungry  for  thorough  reform. 
Instead    of  the   offices,   cosy   and  warm  ! 

His   wife,   the    dear    body,   as    shy   as    a    bird 
That  flitted   away   when  the   foliage   stirred, 
Who   believed   in   the   Deacon  next  to  the  Lord, 
And   counted   his   praises   her  highest   reward. 


56  DEACON   KENT  IN   POLITICS. 

Began   to   consider  her  feminine  gear, 
And   add   a   few  pieces,   surprisingly   dear; 
To   turn  and  make  over  the  best  of  her  gowns, 
And  consult   with   fine  ladies  out  of  the  towns 
On   ruffles   and    silks,   and    flounces,   cut    bias  — 
Distracting   the   Deacon,  'humble  and   pious, 
With   a  jargon   of  phrases   new   to   his   ears — 
With  rattle  of  stitching  and  snipping  of  shears, 
With  tucking  and  pleating  and  flourish  of  laces, 
With  Pompadour  waists    and    rich    polonaises, 
With    princess     robes,    trailing    their    trains    far 

behind, 
And  dear   loves   of  hats,   flying   plumes    in    the 

wind; 

With  shirring  and  piping  and  fluting  enough 
To  stagger  the  man  when  he  paid  for  the  stuff; 
For,  cost  what  it  might,  the  good  woman  meant 
To  look  fit  for  the  wife  of  Governor  Kent! 

To   the  fond,    trusting   soul    it    never   occurred 
To  doubt   that   the   Deacon,    in   honor  preferred, 


DEACON  KENT  IN  POLITICS.  57 

Would   glide  into    place   on   the    gathering  flood 
Of  favor  from   all  of  the  patriot  good, 
Delighting    to   vote,   with    assurance    and    pride, 
For  a  modest,  true    man,   and   a  Deacon   beside. 
She  was   sure   that  her  husband    by  Heaven  was 

sent 

To   pilot  affairs   to   auspicious   event, 
And   she  smiled   a  sweet   smile   at  the   merciful 

plan 

That  made  her  the  wife  of  this  wonderful  man, 
Coming  up  from  the  plow  to  govern  the  State, 
And  rank  evermore  with  the  noble  and  srreat 

O 

But  wary  and  shrewd  were  the  good   Deacon's 

foes, 

And  fierce  was  the  war  that  around  him  arose. 
He  might  not  come  up  like  a  gourd  in  the 

night — 

He   might  not  appear  as   a  meteor  light 
To   flash   in   the   thick   of  political  fight — 
To   dazzle   the   people,   a   hero   unknown, 


58  DEACON  KENT  IN   POLITICS. 

And   bear  off  the  coveted   honors   full  -  blown, 
With   never  a  voice   to   cry    out    in   dissent — 
To  show  him  nobody  but  "Old   Deacon  Kent," 
Of  whom,  with   significant   shake    of    the    head, 
There  were  sundry  grave   things  that  had  to   be 

said. 
And    soon    the    "Gazette,"    the    "Herald,"     the 

"  News," 

The    papers    that    stood   for   the   opposite   views, 
Crying  oat  for  "Reform?  with  tears  in  the  ink, 
And  grief  in  large  letters,  too  dreadful  to  think, 
Began   to   invent   biographical   facts — 
To  present    the  wrong    side  of  praiseworthy  acts 
Which  the  Deacon  regarded  the  pride  of  his  life; 
To  gather  chance  doings  and  words  of  his  wife, 
And   hold   all   aloft  for   the   people   to   view 
In   a  light   that  was   most   infernally  blue! 
They  grubbed  round  the  roots  of  his  family  tree, 
And   hunted  old   records   and   rumors   to   see 


DEACON  KENT  IN  POLITICS.  59 

Just  who    the    Kents   were,   or   just  what    they 

had   done, 

With   sharpest    of   eyes  for  this   prominent  one, 
Who,   e'er  he  knew  it,   was  put  on   his   trial 
In   newspaper   courts. 

With   sturdy  denial 

Or  dignified   silence  he  went  on   his   way, 
Trusting  much   to   his   record,  clear  as   the  day, 
And   wondering    greatly   that   calumny's   tongue, 
So   busy  and   evil   and    easily   swung, 
Should   spatter   him  over  with   slime  of  the  pit, 
That    blotched    him   with   blackness   wherever  it 

hit. 
The  knights   of  the   pencil,  the  Nasts  of  the 

day, 

Their  delicate  fancy  soon   brought  into   play; 
He  was  pictured  in  gross,  side  -  splitting  cartoons, 
With   pockets   wide  yawning   in   his    pantaloons, 
And  fingers   all   deftly   approaching   the   locks 
That   guarded   the   people's   strong    treasury   box. 


60  DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS. 

He   was   drawn   on   a   nest,  inside   of  a   ring, 
Corruptions   uncounted   under  his   wing, 
All   ready   to  fly,   like   the  harpies  of  old, 
And   greedily   batten   on   government  gold, 
If  votes   that    elected    the    Deacon   were  polled! 
He   appeared   as   a  thief  with   piety's   coat, 
With  the  look  of   a  sheep   and   the   heart   of  a 

goat. 

An  angel  was  drawn  with  the  Deacon's  own  face, 
With   tail,   and  a  hoof  not   suggestive   of  grace, 
To  show  that  his  home  was  the  bottomless  place! 
He   was  pictured  in  church  as  passing  the  plate 
For   the  far  away  heathen   little   and   great, 
Aud  giving  no  heed   to   the  cry  of  the  poor 
Who    turned    away  hungry   and    cold    from    his 

door. 

And  so,  while  the  people  guffawed  at  each  joke, 
The   wrath  of  the   Deacon   within  him   awoke. 
And   he   swore  a  great   oath,   as  near  as    he  dare 
(For  Deacons  are   men  without  license  to  swear), 


DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS.  Q\ 

That,    sure   as   the   law  was  supreme  in  the  land, 
Ple'd   make    these   tormenters   of    his   understand 
That   he   was   no   man  to   endure   the   harpoon 
Of  slander,  discharged   by   a  pencil   cartoon; 
That  he  was   a   man   with   a-  place   and  a  name 
Too   sacred   for  caricature   to    defame. 
And  he   started   a   suit  with   damages   laid 
At  a  plump  hundred  thousand,  down  to  be  paid, 
As   the  price   of   the  artists'    scurrillous   fun — 
Slight  return  for   the  wrong  their  sketchings  had 

done; 
But    the    Deacon    was    beaten  — his    lampooners 

won, 

And   all   through,   the   State   the   rollicking  roar 
Which    the    pencils   evoked   was   worse   than   be- 
fore. 

And   then   stories   were   told,    misleading,  untrue, 
But,   often   told   over   and  over,   they   grew 
Like  the  night-growing  mushroom,  watered  with 
dew; 


62  DEACON  KENT  IN   POLITICS. 

How   the   Deacon  contrived   with  hypocrite's  art, 
To   cover   the   sepulcher  foul   of  his   heart. 
There  wasn?t   a  sin    that   the    Decalogue  knows 
That  he  didn't  indulge,  contended  his   foes; 
What  he  did  after  .dark   or  did   on    the   sly, 
With   his  pious,  long    face   and   innocent   eye, 
Was   sufficient  to   make  humanity   weep, 
When  retailed  by  the   statesmen,  searching    and 

deep, 

Who    managed    the   war   on   the  opposite   side, 
And   over  his  errors   made    speeches   and   cried  ! 

And   they   told   with   delight   that  the   sire   of 

the   Kents 

Was   a  bloated   aristocrat,   riding   the   fence, 
In    days    when    the    colonists    fought     with    the 

King. 

They   couldn't  have   proved   the   ridiculous   tiling 
Which    they   echoed     so    loud  ;     no    matter    for 

that; 
It  helped  prove   the   Deacon   an   aristocrat, 


DEACON  KENT   JN  POLITICS  63 

Who,     despite     his     hard     hands     and     hickory 

clothes, 

"Was   not   to   be  trusted   the   length  of  his  nose  ! 
Then    somebody   asked,    with    a   sneer    and    a 

taunt, 
"  How    was    it     about    his    great  -  grandmother's 

aunt  ? 
Don't    reports    go    to    show    her    off   from    the 

hooks  ?  •- 

Hadn't  Satan  her  name  writ  down  in  his  books  ? 
Didn't   somebody    say   and    somebody   hear 
That   she   was  a  creature   uncanny   and   queer  ? " 
And   hence  it  was   argued  by   inference  clear, 
That    the    Deacon    must    have    a    taint    in    his 

blood — 

Inclination   to  evil  rather  than  good. 
And  one  of    the   tricks   of    the  eloquent   men 
Who    declaimed    on     the    stump    all     thro'    the 

campaign, 


64  DEACON  KENT  IN   POLITICS. 

Was   to   rattle   the   bones  of  that  grandmother's 

aunt, 

And  cry  to  the  voters,  "  Now  why  do  you  want 
To   vote   for  that  man  ?    You   can   see  what  his 

bent   is  ! 

It's  clear  as  the  sun  he's   non  compos   mentis/" 
All   this   was   proclaimed   with   lugubrious   air, 
By   careful   reformers,   who   counted  as   fair 
jfll    lies    that  were    told    in   the    cause   of   Re- 
form ! 

And   welcomed,   from   regions    excessively   warm, 
Any   artful  design   or   treacherous   trick, 
To  rescue  the  State  from  the  hands  of  old  Nick 
And  bluest  of  ruin,   by   bringing   them  in 
To  places  of  honor  reform,  to   begin  ! 

And   then,  affidavits  were   sworn   by  the  score, 
By  men  of  high  standing,  ne'er  heard  of  before, 
All   bringing  to   notice  the   infamous   art 
Which   the    Deacon  employed  as  parcel  and  part 


DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS.  65 

Of  guilty    transactions   so   many   and   black, 
That  e'en  hosts  of  his  friends  were  taken  aback, 
And   cried, 

"Is   it   possible?   O,  can   it   be 
That   Kent  is   a   swindle   gigantic,   and   we 
Have  trusted  him  blindly  and  honored  him  more 
Than   scarcely  a   Deacon   was  honored  before  ? 

Can    it   be  that   his   visage,   homely   and   long, 
Is   only   a  blind   for   a  heart  that   is   wrong  ?  " 
And   many  believed  of  the  Deacon,  that   he, 
As    the    child-like   Ah    Sin,  the  heathen  Chinee, 
In    the    deepest    of    games    could    well    take    a 

hand, 

And    few   were    the    tricks    he    did   not   under- 
stand ! 
Soon    into    the    church    base    suspicions   were 

sent 

By   questions   and   hints   of  mysterious   intent, 
Until,  on  a  day,   Deacon   Issacher   Cook 
Hose  up  in   his  place   with   a  sorrowful  look, 


66  DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS. 

And  said,  with  a  voice  that  trembled  and  shook, 

"  I   feel   it,   my  brethren,   a   delicate    task, 
And   yet   I'm   impressed   'tis   my   duty   to   ask, 
As    one    of    our    number" — (all  knew  whom   he 

meant, 

And   turned   with   quick  glances    to    poor    Dea- 
con  Kent) 

"  Is  charged  by   the  papers  with  serious  things, 
Unworthy    a  child  of    the   greatest   of    Kings, 
A  committee   be  named  to  sit  on    the   same, 
And  clear  from   the  church  all  the  scandal    and 
blame  I " 

The   tremolo   stop   so   affected  his   voice, 
The  pressure   of  duty   so  left  him  no  choice 
But  to  speak  the   whole   matter  out   of  his  soul, 
Impelled   by   a  feeling  he   couldn't   control; 
His  air  was   so   solemn,   so   troubled   his   look, 
'Twas   scarcely   remembered  that   Issacher   Cook, 
In   matters   of   politics   always  had   leant 
To   the  opposite   side   from   Jonathan   Kent; 


DEACON   KENT  IN  POLITICS.  Qf 

And    sometimes    had     uttered,    just    under     his 

breath, 
The  fear  there   were   some  not    quite   sound    in 

the  faith; 
And    that    Brother    Kent    might    be    somewhat 

askew 
When   tested  by  principles   ancient  and    true. 

The  committee  fell   through;    the  Deacon  had 

still 

That   simple   way,   better   than   orator's   skill, 
Which  helped  him  the  rising  suspicion  to  brook, 
And    mollify   all   but  his   good   Brother   Cook, 
Who   closed  with  a  prayer  which  was  careful  to 

state 

The   pith   of  the  charges  made  up  to   that  date; 
And   thus   to   bring  round,  by  the  way   of   the 

Throne, 

The   impression   that   Kent   was  perfectly   known 
To  the  all-seein     Lord  and   to   Issacher  too, 


And  they'd  both  keep  an  eye  on  what  he  might  do  ! 


68  DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS. 

With    woman's     devotion    the    Deacon's    true 

wife 

Held   faithfully   fast   to   the  life   of   her  life. 
She   wondered   that   fire  didn't  fall  from  on  high 
On   men  who   could   shamelessly,   recklessly   lie 
And  slander  her  husband,  the  pattern    of    truth, 
A    man    without    stain    from    the    days   of   his 

youth. 
'Twould  not  have  been  safe  for  those   reprobate 

men 

If  her  hand  had   held   a  few  thunderbolts  then; 
She'd   have    opened    for   them  a  valley  of  Hin- 

nom 

For  behaving  as   if  the   devil  were  in   'em  ! 
She'd  have  given   a  pang   to   the   father  of  lies, 
If  he  have   any   heart   of  respectable   size, 
By  cutting  down  some,  the  delight  of  his  eyes, 
Who  proved  themselves  born  of  detestable  stock, 
And   chips  of  the  old,  unregenerate  block  1 


DEACON  KENT   IN   POLITICS.  69 

Had  she  owned   a  private   collection   of   bears, 
Straight  letting  them  loose,  like  "  The  woman  who 

dares," 

She'd  have  gathered  a  harvest  of  terrible   tears. 
But    she    had    not  the   bolts    nor    yet    had    she 

bears 

To   comfort  her  under  her  troubles   and  cares; 
But   she    found    it  great    help   to    unbridle  her 

tongue — 

For  she  was  a  woman  whose  spirit  was  stung — 
And   say  that  such  slanderers  ought  to  be  hung! 
That  a  black,  burning  shame  it  was,  to  be  sure, 
And  more  than   a   martyr  of  old   could   endure, 
That   men   without  heart,  for  political   gain, 
Disregarding   the  truth   as   well   as   the   pain 
Of  the  slandered  and  wronged,  should  preach  up 

"Reform? 

With   voices   so   eager  and   ardor   so   warm, 
While  full  of  all  malice   and   reeking   with   sin, 
And   exhaling   the   fumes   of  whisky   and   gin! 


70  DEACON  KENT  IN   POLITICS. 

It   was   not   the  work   of  reformers,   she   knew, 
To   black-ball   the    Deacon   and    smite    his    soul 

through 

With   the   venom   of   lies,   a   thousand   and   one; 
To   prevent  the  good   work  it   was  plain    might 

be  done, 

If  such   a  good    man   were   set   over  the   State 
To   manage   affairs  and  keep  everything  straight. 

To   ideas   such   as   these   she   ever   inclined; 
For  hers  was   the  woman's   "illogical    mind" 
Which,  contrive    as    it   might,    could    never    be 

sure 
How  the  throwing  of  dirt  was  the  way  to  make 

pure 

The   sadly   soiled  fellows   who  threw  it  the  most, 
Or  save   a    great    cause  which   without   it   were 

lost! 
As   she  thought  of  her  spouse  so  troubled  and 

crossed, 

A   mild  lightning   shot   from   her  gentle   eye — 
Her   needle,  in   fingers   excited    and    spry, 


DEACON  KENT   IN  POLITICS.  71 

Seemed   making  a  bayonet  charge   on    the    crew 
Of  dissolute  liars   and   piercing  them   through; 
Or   her   spoon,    dipping    fiercely    into   her    tea, 
Showed   the   way   she'd   have  plunged   them    un- 
der  the    sea, 

Where  Egypt's  bad   king  and   his   chariots   be! 
With   shafts  of  vile  rancor  by  one  side  trans- 
fixed, 

By   the   other  bepraised,  the   Deacon  was  mixed 
In    his    thoughts  of  himself,   and   troubled    and 

sore 

Over   personal   views   unfamiliar   before. 
It    troubled     and    pained    him   when    partisans 

claimed 

Sagacity,  wisdom   and   virtues    unnamed 
For  him  which   he  knew  he   never  had    shown, 

And   wondered   what    signs    their   presence  made 

known. 

Opponents   their   secrets   of  evil   laid   bare, 
And   the   Deacon   perused   with   agonized  stare 


72  DEACON  KENT   IN   POLITICS. 

The   stories   of  sins  which   he   shuddered  to  see, 
Of   which,    very   clearly,   he  guilty   must   be. 

As    the    poor    man    beheld  that    picture    and 

this, 

An   angel   of  light,   or   fiend   from   th'   abyss; 
Like  himself   in    the   face,   in   all   else   a  lie, 
He   sat  meekly   down,   'twixt  a  tear   and  a  sigh, 
And  said, 

"What  a   mass   of  confusion   am    I  ! 
Am   I  this?    Am   I   that?    O  what   can    I   be? 
Will  not  somebody  tell  the  truth  about   me? 
I   sure  am   not  demon   nor  glorified  saint! 
Why   may    I    not  pass  for  plain  Jonathan  Kent, 
And   the  people   unite  for  me   just  as   I   am, 
All  working  with   me   the   swift   torrent  to  dam 
Of  reckless,   disgraceful   and   wasteful   abuse? 
Why  may  there   not  be   a   perpetual    truce 
To   the  tricks   and   deceits   of  political   strife? 
Why  can't   I   be    judged    by   the   facts  of    my 
life?" 


DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS.  73 

Election    day  came    and    the    sovereigns    and 

lords 

Streamed   from   city  saloons  and  populous  wards, 
From   the  hamlets  and   farms   so   quiet  and  still, 
To   express   at   the  polls  the   masculine    will 
Of  the   male  population,   eager   to  show 
Their  judgment   of  men   and  of  policies   too. 

The   Deacon's   opponent,  a   skilled  party   hack, 
Who    was    known   far   and   wide    and   was    used 

to   the    track, 

Had  worked  up  the  case  with  a  masterly  art, 
As  was  seen  on  all  sides  from  the  earliest 

start. 

To  plain  farmer  men  he  a  statesman  appeared, 
Long  tried  by  the  public,  with  vision  so  cleared 
He  could  quickly  discern  the  right  string  to 

draw. 
And    the    farmers  came    up  with   a  "  Hip   and 

Hurrah, 


74  DEACON  KENT  IN   POLITICS. 

For  the  friend  of  the  people,  Simon  M.  Blobb!" 
—A  villain  veneered,  and  a  swindle  and  snob, 
Who,  down  in  the  deeps  of  his  shell  of  a  soul, 
Despised  every  farmer  that  came  to  the  poll. 

"  Who    is    Kent  ?  "  cried   these  voters.      u  He 

doesn't  know 

The  way  this  machine  of  the  State  ought  to  go! 
He's  a  farmer  like  us  and  don't  know  the 

wires ; 

Couldn't  handle  finance  and  Molly  Maguires; 
He's  a  good  enough  man  to  pass  round  a 

plate, 
But   Blobb   is   the   man   to  govern    the  State!" 

Even   temperance   men,  the   radical   sort, 
Who    meant   at   all    hazards    to    hold    the    good 

fort, 

Deserted    the   Deacon    in    many  a   score; 
For  Blobb,   at   a   notary's,   solemnly  swore 
That    though    he    had    tippled    he'd    do    it    no 

more! 


DEACON   KENT    IN   POLITICS.  75 

That   special   reform   was   quite   to   his   mind 
To   innocence,  virtue   and   goodness   inclined. 

And   the  honest,   good   souls  declared  him  the 

man 

To   execute  laws   on   the  temperance  plan, 
He   had   such   a  zeal   in   a  work   that  was   new, 
And   such   marvelous   skill   to   carry    it   through. 

The     men     too     who    burrowed     in     dens    of 

saloons, 

And   their   customers   all,  unbroken  platoons, 
With   nudges   and    jokes    and    significant  winks, 
And   bets   that   committed  to  numberless   drinks, 
Went   solid   for  Blobb  and   Reform  in  the  State, 
And  ratified   often   in   poor   whisky,  straight. 

Now     Blobb      was      an     artist     in     managing 

things ; 

He'd   been   behind   scenes   in   different   rings; 
And  he  planned  that  squads  of  the  seediest  chaps, 
After    voting    for   him,    with    "  Kent"    on   their 
caps, 


76  DEACON   KENT   IN  POLITICS. 

In  the  heavier  towns  should  stay  near  the  polls, 
And  shout  for  the  Deacon  as  if  for  their  souls! 
And  they  were  on  hand  with  conspicuous  rags, 
With  badges  for  "Kent"  and  "Kent"  on  their 


With   noses   high   colored  and   eyes   all  aflame, 
Exalting  the   Deacon,  in   Blobb's   little   game! 

As  the  dignified   citizen   soberly  went 
To  promote  law  and   order  by  voting  for  Kent, 
The   worst  looking    crew   that  ever  he   saw, 
These    fellows,    would    meet    him   with   maudlin 

11  Hurrah"! 

And  din  in  his  ears  that  "Old  Kent"  was  the  man! 
And  reform  was   the  sweet,  beneficent  plan 
That   called  for   the   help   of  each   citizen's  vote. 
They  discordantly  sang,  with  "Kent"  in  each  note; 
"Kent"    gurgled    and     hiccoughed     from     every 

rough   throat, 

Till   the   citizen,  dazed   and   frantic  and   sick, 
Disgusted   and   mad   and   not   knowing  the  trick, 


DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS.  77 

Broke   away  with   a   bound   from    the    ill-omened 

mob, 

Crowded   up   to   the   box   and   voted   for    BLOBB! 
'Twas    more    than     the    Deacon    could     quite 

understand, 
This      changing     of     place     which     his     enemy 

planned ; 

As   the   knight    of    Reform   he  began    the   cam- 
paign, 
And     argued    it    through    on     the     high     moral 

plane, 

With    never   a  word  he   had   need   to   recall — 
With   manhood  and  conscience  unsullied  through 

all. 
He   hoped    it    might    be     his     high    mission    to 

serve 

The   State  that  he  loved  and  her  honor  preserve, 
But   never   a   thought   of  mean,  selfish   intent, 
Found   a  home  in   the   soul   of   Jonathan    Kent. 


78  DEACON   KENT   IN   POLITICS. 

But   now   every  man  who   voted    for  Blobb, 
And   all   of  the   motley  and   dissolute   mob, 
Were   shouting    "Reform"    at  the   top   of   their 

voice, 

And   claiming  for  Blobb  that  he  was  the  choice 
Of  the   people   who   cared   for   the  general  weal; 
That  he   was   the  patriot   truer   than    steel, 
Whose   hand   should  be  laid  on  the  helm  of  the 

ship, 
To   pilot  her   safely  with   statesman-like   grip. 

The   friends    of    the    Deacon   all   worked   with 

a   will 
And    hoped    against    hope    through   the   contest, 

until 
The   sun  had  gone   down   on   the    scene    of    the 

fight; 
They  watched    with    sore    hearts    the   returns   of 

the   night. 

The   Deacon   was   beaten — the   vox  populi 
Forbade  him    the   honor   that   dazzled    his  eye. 


DEACON   KENT  IN  POLITICS.  79 

He   turned   back   to   his   farm    unable  to  see 
Why  the   people   so   duped  and  blinded  could  be 
As   to   honor   a   man   who  was  false  to  the  core; 
But  his   spirit   was   sweet   as   ever  before, 
And  as   faithful   to  seek  the  good  of  the  State — 
As   willing   to   labor,  as   patient   to   wait; 
He   showed,  by  his  bearing   of  manly  content, 
That   no   man    was   nobler   than   Jonathan   Kent! 

But  his  wife,    the  good    woman,  never   forgot 
The  slander   so   shameless  that  shadowed  her  lot. 
She   looked    at    her    gowns    and   beautiful   laces, 
Her   Pompadour  waists   and   rich  polonaises, 
And   she   heaved   a    deep    sigh    of    tender   com- 
plaint 
That   she   wasn't  the  wife  of  Governor  Kent! 


<?>  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN.  <•> 

tt         tt 


READ  AT  THE  NEW  ENGLAND   FESTIVAL,  IK  DEB   MOINBS, 
DEC.   22,   1871. 


A    LITTLE,  hard-strained    ship    beat    by     the 
-£-V         sea 

For   weary  months — a   sea-worn    company 
Of    anxious   men   and   wives,  drew   near   a   shore 
Swept    by  the    wind  and    bare.       They    saw    no 

more 

A   trace   of  cultured   life.       No   moving   town 
They  saw — no  fields  with  autumn  stubble  brown — 
No   home  of  living  man — no  feeding  kine — 
Of  all   that  life   the   heart   holds   dear,    no   sign. 

Not  as   nomadic   wanderers   they  came, 
To   whom    each   desert   wildness   is   the   same; 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND    CHILDREN.      81 

But  from   fair  homes  and  dear  old  father-land — 
From    sacred  graves    by  which   they    might    not 

stand 

Again — from  share  in  England's  growing  fame — 
The   brightening  glory  of  historic  name; 
From  all  that  common  men  most  love  and  bless, 
They  came  to  plant   a   vacant   wilderness; 
On   that  near  shore,  so   desolate   and   wild, 
For  the  great   future    in    God's   name  .to   build. 

They    stood    with    bowing    heads    in    fervent 

prayer 

To   cast   themselves   upon   Almighty  care, 
And  then,  with  faith   nor  fate  nor   storm   could 

shock, 
Stepped    from    the    surging    sea    on    Plymouth 

Rock; 

From   humble  men   they  were   content   to   be, 
Stepped   into  fame — yes,  Immortality! 

They    brought    with    them    to   that   forbidding 

shore 
6 


82       THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 

A  benediction   such   as  land   before 
Had   ne'er   received   from   richest  argosy, 
Far   sailing  on    the   much-bestowing  sea. 
They  brought  no  wealth  of  jewels   or  of  gold — 
No  war-like   banner   to   the   air   unrolled 
Bespoke   the   presence   there   of    kingly    power — 
No   furnishing   for  knightly  hall   and    tower — 
No   titled   lords,  proud   of  exalted   birth, 
Striding  the   shore  as   though   they  spurned   the 
earth. 

Not  these   the  benediction  royal,  grand, 
Passing   that  day  from  ship   and   sea   to   land; 
But  men   high-souled   and     sweet-souled    women 

too, 

Yoked  well   together  and    sublimely  true 
To   all  of    freedom,   right    and   God   they  knew. 
They  dared   the  power  of  tyrant   king   defy, 
The  rage  of  meddling  priest.       They  dared  deny 
The  right  of  priest  or   church   or  king  to  stand 
In  place  of    God,    the    conscience   to   command. 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS   AND   CHILDREN.      83 

And   when   the    home    land    of   their    love  was 

filled 
"With   kindling    fires    for    those    who   would   not 

yield, 
They    grandly    vowed    to    God    they   would   not 

buy 

Comfort   and  home   and   safety  with   a  lie. 
That  they  might  keep  their  truth  unstained  they 

fled 

Far  over   unknown   seas — with   solemn   dread 
Of  grieving   God  upon   their  souls,  made   haste 
To  build   their   sanctuary  in   the   waste, 
And   boldly   claim    their   right,   in  simple  ways, 
To   worship   Him  who   is   above  all   praise. 

For    this     they    came — and    such     a     coming 

made 
The    new    land    rich,    to    which   their    feet  had 

strayed ; 

With   hopeful   promise  rich — with   prophecy 
And  pledge  of  goodly  empire  yet   to   be. 


84      THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 

They,  even   they,  those  self-surrendering  men 
And  women  brave,  who  looked  not  back  again 
To   what    was    left — whom  one   poor,    trembling 

bark, 

Unfit  for  sea — a  shaken,  wave-worn  ark. 
Could  float  with  all  their  goods,  yes,  even  they 
Brought  benediction   to   the  wilds   that  lay 
Vacant  and   vast  before   their  pilgrim   way. 

They  brought  their  English  manhood — courage 

high, 

Yirtue  and   much-enduring  loyalty 
To  what  they  felt  to   be   the  will   Supreme. 
They  brought  no   hot  ambition — no   vain   dream 
Of     fame     and    greatness    for    themselves    and 

theirs. 
Staunch    Englishmen,  whose    earnest    hopes  and 

prayers 
Were  that    to    England's    king    they   might    be 

true 
And  give   the  Heavenly  King  His   rightful  due, 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN.      85 

They  meant  to   make  old   England  live   again 
In  all   her  freest   thought  and  noblest  men. 
In   self-reliant,  God-reliant   strength, 
The    sea    safe    crossed,   they   saw  their    rest    at 

length ; 

Oast   out    and    wandering,    saw   God-given   room 
For  sacred   altars,  industries   and  home. 

Such    characters    and    aims    and    faith    could 

bless 
The  virgin  land   they  came  out   to   possess. 

And  England  blindly  wrought  them   for  their 

sphere; 

By  her   constraints   and  discipline  severe 
She   trained    the   strong,   unyielding  man 
To   bear  the  name   historic — Puritan! 
She,  little  dreaming   the  illustrious   end, 
The  spirit  shaped  she  could  not  break  nor  bend. 

As   Spartan   mother  for  her  babe  in   arms 
Craved  might    and    skill    for  war's   wild,    fierce 
alarms ; 


86      THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 

Asked   for  him   patience,  hardness   to   endure, 
The  foot  made  fleet   and   the    sword-hand   made 

sure, 

And  holding  back   her   mother   tenderness, 
Her  fond   endearing  and  her   soft   caress, 
Brought   up   the  boy  with   sternest  discipline, 
That  he   the  mastery  of  himself  might   win 
And    thus    might    master    more  —  so    England's 

hand 

Was  heavy  on   the   Puritan.       She   banned 
His   simple  worship — tried   him   in    the   fire, 
Which,    as     with    gold,     but    made    his     value 

higher. 
She  beat  him,   bound  him,    burned   him,  all   in 

vain; 

From  prison,  furnace,  forth  he  came  again! 
Came  with  uncringing  front  and  lofty  aim, 
For  God  had  kept  him  in  consuming  flame. 

Scant  mother-love    had    he;     but   so  he  grew 
Into   the   man  with   moral   nerve   and   thew 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN.       87 

To   face,  unblanched,  the   terror  of  the    time — 
To   dare   the   Mayflower   pilgrimage   sublime — 
To   build   in   the   new   land   he   stoutly  trod, 
Altars   to   Learning,  Liberty  and   God! 

So   came   the   fathers   in   those  early  years; 
So  was   New  England   planted.      Toils  and  tears 
The   planting   tended,  watered.       Painful   care, 
Privation   pitiful   and   pleading   prayer — 
These   were   the   price   those   willing  heroes   paid 
For   homes   and   rights   which   power   might   not 

invade. 

So   was   the  garden  in  the  desert   made; 
So    bloomed    the    rose    where    wildness    teemed 

before; 
So   crept   the   vine   above   the   Pilgrim's  door. 

In  sterile  soil  and  round  the  rugged  rock, 
The  seed  of  that  well  tried  and  sifted  stock 
Grew  well — the  hill-tops  crowned — the  valleys 

rilled 
With   homes,  where,  wrestling  hard   with   nature 

wild, 


88      THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 

With  frequent  blighting  from  the  frowning  sky, 
With   scant   return   from   toilsome   husbandry, 
New     England's     children     that     stern     culture 

knew 
By  which    there    grows    a    manhood    grand  and 

true — 

A  manhood  quick   its   rights   divine   to   know 
And  brave  to  hold,  'gainst  each  aggressive  foe — 
And  gentle   womanhood,  refined  and  pure, 
Yet  strong   to   love,  to  labor   and  endure, 
Which   oft,  in   times  God  send  us   not  again, 
Bore   up   the   spirit  of  New   England   men; 
Exalted   womanhood,  self-poised,  contained, 
Modest,  courageous,  trusting,  still,  deep-veined 
And  rich — of  life's  best  wealth  exhaustless  mine; 
Like   the   King's   daughter,  glorious   within! 

New  England's   children   now    in    every  zone. 
Proud   and   erect   their  noble   lineage   own; 
Knowing   the   Pilgrim   was  far  more    than   peer 
Of  high-born   knight   or   lordly  cavalier; 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN.      89 

And   knowing   too   that    those    grave    men    who 

trod 

The  Mayflower  deck  and  the  cold  Plymouth  sod, 
Shall  live  in  fame,  heroes  and   knights  of  God! 

As    fly,    wind-borne,    the    elm     trees     winged 

seeds, 

On   fat  fields   falling  and   on   soil   that  feeds 
The  mountain   sheep  with  pinched  and  doubtful 

fare; 

As,  scattered  strangely  through  the  yielding  air, 
They  strike   root   far   from   the   ancestral   tree, 
Hold   fast   the  ground    and   wave   perennially; 
So   we,  out-borne   by  winds   of  Providence, 
Born   of  New   England   but   far   traveled  thence, 
Here  taking  root,  far   from    the    parent   stock, 
From   scenes   historic   and  from  Plymouth  Rock, 
Meet   to   do   honor    to    New    England's   name — 
To   add   our   tribute   to   the   Pilgrims'  fame. 
From     these     fair     lands,     the     garden     of     the 

West, 


90      THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 

To     which    our    pilgrim     feet     have     come,     so 

blessed 

With   beauty  and   with  fatness,  do   we   send 
To  the  old   home  our  greeting  glad.      We  bencl 
Our  thought  Eastward  away.     We  hail  the  shore 
That   feels   the  Atlantic   dash   and   pour 
The   fulness    of   its    waves — the    old    home  land 
Whose     valleys     verdant    and    whose    mountains 

grand 
We    love    as     children     love     their     birth-place. 

Hard 
Though     men     may    call     thee,    and    thy    visage 

marred, 

We  see  thy  beauty,  O   thou  mother,  ours! 
We  own  the  promptings  of  thy  unspent  powers! 
We  bless   thee;    pay  thee   tribute  grateful,  deep, 
Land     where     the     Pilgrims     and     the     Fathers 

sleep ! 

Wherever,  East   or   West,  our  lot  may  be, 
If  worthy  of  thy  history  and  thee, 


THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS  AND   CHILDREN.      91 

If  worthy  children   of  thy  ancient   sires, 

We   shall  keep   bright,  feed   well   the    altar  fires 

Of  Liberty  and   Right! 

So  help   us  Thou 
Before  whose   unveiled    face    the  Pilgrims   bow! 


ECHOES  OF  WAR. 


MB   lOLDIKas'  UUNION,    DM  MOIMM, 

UPTOUEX,  1878. 


IT)  RIGHT  over  dark-browed   Sumter 
-*-^     The  flag  of  freedom  flies, 
The  pride  of  loyal  freemen, 

A  glory   in   their   eyes; 
Far  over   Charleston   harbor 

The  blessed   shadow  lies, 
Of  that  victorious   banner, 

Baptized  in   bloody  fight, 
Where  Freedom's   sons,   true-hearted, 

From   mailed,  oppressive   might, 
Wrung  for  themselves   and   children 

A  nation's   name   and   right. 

Against   the   walls   of  granite, 
With    murmuring  musical, 


ECHOES    OF    WAR.  93 

The   waves,   as   if  in   homage, 

Unceasing  rise   and   fall 
About   that   standard    streaming 

In   beauty   o'er   the   wall. 

How   safe,   serene  and  peaceful, 

O,   Banner  of  the   Free, 
How    proudly  dwells   the   Nation 

O'er-shadowed  e'er  by   Thee! 

But   see!   along  the   margin 

Of  Charleston's   spreading  bay, 
Where,   cityward   and   seaward, 

The   waters   sweep   away. 
With   looks   of  angry   menace 

Men   hasten    to   and   fro, 
And   at  the  flag  and   Suinter 

Hiss   curses   as   they   go! 

See,   too,   the   threatening   earthworks: 
And    there,   above   them,   flies, 


94  ECHOES    OF    WAR. 

O'er  Moultrie   too,   a   banner 
All   strange   to   patriot  eyes! 

A  banner   ill-assorted, 

With   curious,   blundering   bars, 

And  infinite   confusion 

At  work   among   the   stars. 

O   Shame!   'tis  Treason's  emblem 
The  grand   old  flag  defies, 

And  flaunts   before  high  Heaven 
Foul  Treason's  infamies! 

And  now  the   black-lipped  cannon 
Hurl  crashing   shot  and   shell 

Against   the  wall  of   Sumter — 
All  aimed,   alas,  too  well ! 

While   to   each  echo  answers 
The  demon   "rebel  yell!" 

And   see !    the  hurtling   missiles 

Too   straight,  too   fast   have  flown  ; 
The  walls   before  them   crumble, 


ECHOES    OF    WAR. 

The  flag,   the  -flag  is   down  ! 
"While  treason  gloats   and   glories, 

That  easy   victory  won, 
And    shouts   the  vaunting  challenge, 

"  Let   Northern  hordes  come  on! 
Be   all   their  powers   united 

To   bind   the  gallant   South  ; 
They'll   welcome  find   from   rifle 

And   smoking  cannon's   mouth." 

Ah,   grievous   day  and   woful, 

That  Treason   showed  its   head, 
For  haughty   Southern   matron 

And  high-souled   Southern   maid  ; 
For   all   the  land   together, 

From   lakes   to  everglade, 
Soon   sitting  'neath  the   horror 

Of  war's   black,   wasting   shade  I 

O   day   of  grand   decisions, 
To   loyal  hearts   and   true ; 


96  ECHOES    OF    WAR. 

O  day   when   traitors  builded 
Far  better   than  they  knew, 

And   clasped   the  bands  more   closely, 
They   struggled   to  undo  ! 

O  what   surprise   and  wonder, 

When  Treason   showed  its  head, 
As  northward   swept   the  echoes 

Of    mad'ning  cannonade! 
They  rolled  along  the  seaboard 

And  roused   the  patient   East, 
And   like   a  mighty   earthquake, 

Disturbed   the  waiting   West. 
That   was   the   hour   of  heroes, 

Exalted,   God-inspired  ; 
'Twas   Freedom's  later  birthday — 

The  Northern   heart   was  fired. 

The  rising  shout  of  freemen, 
Mid   Maine's  majestic  trees, 
From   rugged   old    White   Mountains 


ECHOES    OF    WAR.  97 

Rolled  westward  on    the   breeze. 
And  eager   met   and   blended 

With  answering   shouts   that   rose 
From   every   "Western    valley, 

Where  each   great   river   flows — 
From   all    bread-bearing  prairies — 

From   the   Pacific  slope; 
A  gathered    shout  of  freemen 

That  bade   the   Nation   hope. 

O   little  guessed   the   Southron 

How   dear   that  flag  could   be, 
Nor   dreamed   he   of  the   spirit, 

Resistless   as   the   sea, 
Which   moved   the   Northern    bosom, 

And   roused   the   Northern   might, 
And   changed   the   peaceful   toiler 

Into   the   armed   knight! 
That   called   from   farm   and   city 

To   meet  him   in   the  fight, 

From   every   trade   men   follow, 
7 


ECHOES    OF    WAR. 

From   blood  of  every   strain, 
In  one  grand   thought  uniting, 
An  avalanche  of  men. 

Fathers   kissed  wives  and  children, 
Lovers   said   their   "good-byes," 

And  dashed  away,   impatient, 
Tears  from   complaining  eyes, 

Then  marched  with  dauntless   courage 
To  costly  victories. 

O  never  such   an   army 

Had  sun   e'er  seen  before  1 
O  never  such   a  purpose 

Had  armies  moved  of  yore! 
O  never  cause  so  noble 

In  battles  of  renown 
Had  made  plain  souls  heroic, 

To  lay  as  offering  down 
Their  lives  on   country's  altar! 

They   sought  no   glittering  crown  ; 


ECHOES    OF    WAR.  99 

They   went   not  out   for   glory, 

Nor  wild  with   maddened  hate; 
They   went   to   save   the  nation 

In   peril's  deadly   strait; 
The   striped   and   starry  banner, 

Torn  down,   to  lift  anew, 
Nor  let  a  star  be   stricken 

From   its  fair  field   of  blue. 
O   how   they   fell   when   battle 

Belched   forth    its   fiery   storm, 
And   "sacred   soil"   so   vaunted, 

Wet   with   their  life-blood  warm, 
Was   sacred   made  torever 

By   chrism   so  applied! 

O   how   in   horrid   prisons 

They   waited,  pined   and   died, 

While   the   slow  balance   trembled 
And  promised  either   side! 

But  how   at  last   they   conquered— 
Smote   stubborn   Treason    down — 


100  ECHOES    OF    WAR. 

Shook   out   the  flag   o'er   Sumter 
And   every   trait'rous   town, 

Step   keeping,   firm   and   steady, 
With   th'   soul  of   Old  John  Brown! 

0   never  such   a  triumph 

Had   earth   e'er   seen   till   then; 
A  Nation   saved  from   ruin — 

While   from   four  million   men 
The   shackles    burst   asunder, 

And  every  slave  was  free, 
God's   dial   finger  pointing 

The  year  of  •  jubilee  1 

O  never  such   an    army! 

When   war's   stern   work   was   done, 
All   dropped   the  dented  saber, 

All    stacked   the  battered   gun; 
And   as   the   mists   of   morning 

Dissolved   before   the  sun, 
In   the   wide   heaven    scattered, 


ECHOES    OF    WAR.  101 

Are  visible   to   none, 
So  back   into   the  people 

That   army  faded   then: 
Soon   went   to   peaceful   labors, 

Each   soldier  citizen  1 

But   each  man  still  remembers 

How   near  the  cause  was   lost; 
Before  him   comes   the   vision 

Of   war's  red  holocaust! 
And   if,   for   home  and   country, 

Dread  danger   should   draw   nigh, 
Then   sound   the  ringing  bugle 

And   list  the  swelling  cry 
Of    veterans   quick   uprising 

To   answer,   "Here  am   II" 

But   O,   that  silent  army 

Returning  never   more — 
The   vast,  immortal  legion 

That   sleep   by   ocean   shore, 


102  ECHOES    OF    WAR. 

On  river-bank   and  mountain, 

Where  gloriously   they  fell 
Dead  on  the  field  of  battle! 

Let  coming  ages   tell 
Their  deeds   and   death   heroic — 

Let  earth   their  dust  keep   well ; 
Let  flowers   spring  yearly  o'er   them 

To   crown   them    after   fight, 
And   God   regard   their   offering 

To  Nation,    Freedom,   Right. 

Now  hail  ye,   soldier  comrades! 

Ye  men  of  fields  and   camps, 
Who   hunted   down   rebellion — 

Ye  much  enduring  tramps, 
Who  faced  the  foe  and  fought  him 

In  bayous   or  in   swamps. 
Here  fight  your  battles  over, 

Here  join   long  sundered   hands, 
Close   up   the   ranks — touch   elbows, 

And   mark   old-time   commands. 


ECHOES    OF    WAR.  103 

If  Irishman   or  German, 

You   wore   the  army  blue, 
Followed   the  flag  and   Sherman, 

And   saw   the   "  scrimmage "   thro', 

O  * 

If  Scotchman,   French,   or  English, 

Or  whatsoe'er  you   be, 
If  you   but  fought   the  battle 

For   Right   and   Liberty; 
Withstood   the   shock   with   Howard, 

McPherson,   Hooker,    Meade, 
With    Sheridan   or   Hancock, 

All   men   of  hero-breed; 
All   closing  up   together 

With   valor  naught   could   daunt, 
To   "  fight   it   out  all   summer " 

With  grim    Ulysses   Grant; 

I   care  not  what  your  Nation, 
What  burr  is  on  your  tongue, 

What   songs   about  your   cradles 
By   mother-souls   were   sung  ; 


104  ECHOES    OF    WAR. 

I   care   not   what  your   creed   is ; 
Here  side   by  side  we're   one ! 

Before   that  flying  banner — 
By   deeds   of   danger  done — 

By  crowding  common   inem'ries — 
By  grand   results  ye   won, 

Ye   are   not   strange    nor   alien, 
But  each   a   loyai   son 

Of  this   fair  land  and    Freedom  1 

Hail,   Comrades,   Brothers,   all ! 
The  priceless   benediction 

Of  ages  on  you   fall  ; 
Nor  by    the  long  procession, 

Of  freemen   coming  on, 
May   ever  be   forgotten 

The   honors  you   have   won  ; 
Nor  e'er  grow   stale   the   story 

Of  your   brave   deeds   and   you, 
As  generations  grateful, 

Accord   the  glory   due ! 


MY  FRIENDS. 


T    SIT  in  silence  in  my 

Through   open  windows  floating    come 
The   mingling   sounds  of   voices   near, 
But  none  is   spoken   for   my   ear. 
I   sit   alone  —  no   welcome  face 
Lights  up  the  still  and   cloistered  place  ; 
No   sprightly   word   of  treasured   friends 
Its  charm   to   my   seclusion   lends. 

Yet   not  alone   nor  lonely,  I. 
I   crave   no   generous   sympathy. 
I   call  not   those  who  wish   me   well 
To   save   from   ennui's  dreary   spell  ; 
For  friends   are  round   me  —  noble   men 
And   sweet-  voiced  women   throng  me   then. 
They  speak   and   sing   to   soul   and   eye  — 
They   hasten   not,  but   lingering  by, 


106  MY   FRIENDS. 

They  fill   the  air  with  undertone 
Of  music   for  my  ear  alone. 

My   friends   they   are — companions   all, 
Whose   names   I,  loving,  glad   recall ; 
Out  of  the   shadows   dim   and  gray, 
From   lands  and   ages   far  away, 
The  great  departed  round   me   rise — 
The  heirs  of  the   eternities  ! 

They   dwelt  where  wild   Aegean  waves, 
On   Grecian   shores,   in   island   caves 
Were  dashed   and   hid   with   angry   swell, 
As   Neptune's   trident  lashing  fell ; 
Or,  swaying   to  his  milder  thought, 
Swung  soft   the   sailing  Argonaut. 
They   dared    the  risk  of  Trojan   wars — 
They   died   as  valiant  sons  of  Mars 
On   battle-fields   sublimely   won — 
Thermopylas   and   Marathon. 
They   roused   the   quick  Athenian  mind, 
So  subtle,   questioning,   refined, 


MY   FRIENDS.  107 

With   new-born   thoughts   and  promptings  wise, 

Drawn   from  divine  philosophies. 

They  stirred   the   senate  of  old   Rome; 

They  led  her  eagles  proudly  home. 

They   toiled  as  slaves — as  princes  shone — 

They   wore   the  laurels  genius  won. 

They   scanned  the  deep  Chaldean  skies 

Brooding  uncounted  mysteries. 

They  looked  on   the  majestic   Nile — 

The}'  saw   the  Temple's   stately   pile 

Rise  on  Moriah — they   beheld 

The  glorious   One,   with   face  nnveiled. 

They  firm,   unfaltering,   led    the   van 

In   toil  and   sacrifice   for   man. 

Least  understood   they  grandly  died, 

Were  hunted,   stoned  and   crucified. 

They  poets   were,  with   souls   of  fire, 
From  whose  unworn,  loug-echoing  lyre 
The   music  of   the  ages   rings. 
They   walk  apart   as   crowned   kings 


108  MY   FRIENDS. 

By   right  divine,    through   all    the   flow 
Of  centuries   that   come   and   go. 

They   traced  the   slow  historic  page — 
Disclosed   the  bustling,   crimson   stage 
Where   eager   actors,   frantic,   blind, 
Wrought   mighty   issues   for   mankind. 

These  sages,  heroes,  friends  of  mine, 
Who  in   a  light  immortal   shine, 
I   hail   and  welcome.       Theirs   the  past, 
And   mine,   through   them,   its   treasures   vast. 
They   give   themselves    to   man,   to  me, 
Example,   counsel,   company. 

Thronging   through   all    the   later  years 
My  retinue,  well-known,  appears. 

Here   are   the   Fathers —grave   divines 
Who   delved   untiring   in    the   mines 

O 

Of  sacred   lore ;    with   voice   and   pen 
Proclaiming   thoughts   of   God    to    men  ; 
Declaring  sure,   eternal    laws  ; 


MY  FRIENDS.  109 

Unfolding  love   that   sweetly   draws 
To  good   and   peace  the   erring   soul 
Submissive   to   divine  control. 

Fathers   and   Brethren  !    How    the   crowd 
Gathers  about   me — 'tis   a  cloud 
Of  witnesses  touched  by   the   sun — 
Enlightened   from   the  face   of   One 
In  whom   no   darkness  e'er  can   dwell — 
The  mighty   King  invisible. 

What  care   I   though   the   shallow   some 
Pile   "  Odium   Theologicum  " 
Upon    their   names?     What,   that   they   tried 
';A   hair   t'wixt   south   and  southeast  side 
With  keenest  logic   to   divide"? 
I   know   them   faithful,   earnest,    strong, 
Stalwart   for   right,   abhorring   wrong! 
I   chide   them   not   as   though   t'were   sin, 
That    near  horizons   hemmed    them   in. 
I   praise   them   for   the   light   they   gave— 
For   testimony   clear   and   brave 


110  MY   FRIENDS. 

To  all  of   truth   that  in   them   shone. 
I   thank   them   that,  their  labor   done, 
They  walk   with   me   the  border  land 
Of  hope   arid  question,   hand    in  hand. 
They  give  me  sympathy  and   cheer 
In  deathless   aims,   exalted,   dear. 
Into   their  work   I   enter   now, 
And  they   to   mine  consenting  bow. 
I   sit  me   at   their   feet   and   ask 
To  wear  their  mantles   in   my   task; 
That  I  may   ne'er,   unworthy,  slip 
From   their   uplifting   fellowship. 

Now  forth   from   clouds  of   drifting   mist 
I   see  approach   the  scientist — 
The  learned   paleontologist. 
L  welcome  him   and  meekly  list 
While  he,  with   far-off   air,   but   wise, 
Displays  before  my   wondering  eyes 
The  spoil  of   the  immensities. 


MY  FRIENDS  HI 

He's  gray   with  geologic  grit; 
He  reads   the  lore  on   granite   writ; 
He   brandishes  the  fossil   bones 
Of    sanrians   and    mastodons, 
The   claws  of   giant  birds   and  legs 
(So  runs   the  lay),   and   monster   eggs, 
Which,  addled  in   the  ancient  nest — 
A  grief   to   the  maternal   breast — 
Now  find   a  lot   which  had   not  fell 
Had   eager  embryo   chipped  the   shell. 
He  brings   the  prints  of   sweeping  quills, 
And,   strange   to   say,   collected  bills — 
Long  rnnning  bills   and   outlawed   too, 
Collected  with   the  interest  due! 

He   comes   with   bioplasmic  cell, 
From   which,   matured   and  shaken   well, 
All   life   arose  and   Adam   fell; 
Or,   fresh   from   far   communings   high 
With    magnates   of    the   spangled   sky, 
Where   Neptune  rides   the   ether   seas, 


112  MY   FRIENDS. 

Uranus  sails   and  Pleiades; 
Where   Jupiter  in   blameless   course 
Enjoys  from   Juno   long  divorce; 
Where   Venus   smiles   on   lurid    Mars, — 
He   comes   with   spectra  of  the   stars. 
From   whatsoever  bound  of   space 
He   turns   toward   me  his   raptured   face, 
I   greet  him,   thank  him   and   admire; 
And   if   his   quest   shall   take   him  higher 
Than   ever  yet   his   feet  have  gone, 
Or   toward   the  nadir  deeper  down, 
Though   I   may  not  keep   pace   with   him, 
Nor   boldly   vault  from    rim    to   rim 
Of   new  horizons,   still   I   send 
Tribute   to   science   by  my  friend. 


By  forms   and   faces   fancy-bred 

My  quiet  room   is   visited; 

By  gentle  souls   sublime  and  strong, 

Who   live   in   fame   and   love   and  song. 


MY  FRIENDS.  11 

Fat  Falstaff   swells   and   Duncan   bleeds; 
Shylock   recoils   as   Portia  pleads; 
Othello   wins  the   luckless  fair; 
There   murmurs   through   the  midnight   air 
The  love-sick  Romeo's  passion-prayer. 

Blind   Milton,   on   whose  inner   sight 
Day   dawned,  a  great,   supernal   light, 
Calling  the  long,   sonorous   roll, 
Peoples  all   space,  from  pole   to    pole, 
With   angel   powers.     Across   the  arch 
Sublimely   high   they  wheel   and  march. 
'Tis   mine  to  pass  then  in   review — 
My   room  they  silent  circle  through. 

Christian   and    Great   Heart  fight   their  way 
Along  the  narrow  path   that  lay 
In   Bunyan's   vision    to   the   skies. 

In   samite  white,  I   see   arise 
The   wonderful   and   mystic   hand 
That  girds   King   Arthur  with   the   brand 

Excalibur.     All  pure   and   pale, 

8 


]14  MY   FRIENDS. 

Worthy   to   find   the  Holy   Grail, 
To   touch   it,   worshipful   and   glad, 
I   greet   the   stainless   Galahad. 

The  lists  are  set,   the  challenge  sent — 
'Tis   a  chivalric   tournament. 
Gallants,   steel-clad,   reel   to   and   fro, 
Struck   by   the  lance  of  Ivanhoe, 
While   cloth-yard   shafts   of  Robin  Hood, 
Fly   fatal,   in   the  leafy   wood. 
Poor   Sancho   Panza,   wild   with   fright, 
A.mbles   away  in  dismal   flight 
From   scenes   of  just  and   valorous  fight, 
Delivered  by   the   doughty   knight. 

There  floats   above   a   silver  cloud; 
With   Dante's   eyes   to  gaze  allowed, 
I   see  a  figure  olive-crowned, 
Ethereal  and   wrapped   around 
With   scarlet   robe   and   mantle  green. 
Bright  with   a  beauty   never  seen 
In   mortal   form.     Pure,   veiled   in    white, 


MY   FRIENDS.  115 

I   see  her  float   through   deeps   of  light. 
And   all    things   false,   unworthy,   hide 
From   her  whom    love  hath   glorified. 
'Tis  Beatrice,   polar   star 
To   Dante,   gazing   from   afar. 

Along   the  bold,   forbidding   shore 
By  Plymouth   Hock,   blent   with   the   roar 
Of  waves   against  their  rugged  bound, 
I  hear   a   voice  of  pleading   sound. 
John   Alden   speaks   for   absent  Miles; 
Priscilla    turns  to   me   and    smiles 
As   though   her  quickened   sense  had  heard, 
Deep   smothered,   an   unspoken   word; 
Then  answering  softly,   sweetly,  low, 
Takes   him,  and  lets   the   Captain  go! 

And  who   are   these?    Yet   more,  and  more, 
They   crowd  on   those   who   went  before — 
Gay  comrades   for  an  idle  hour. 
I   sit  entranced,  bewildered,  mute, 
And  listen   as   the   phantom   flute 


116  MY   FRIENDS. 

Of  Swiveller   soothes   the   anxious  stress 
That  racks   the  patient   Marchioness. 

By   dim   and  flickering  watcher's  lamp, 
The   queen   of    nurses,   Sairey   Gamp, 
All   undisturbed  serenely  sleeps, 
While,    o'er  her  patient,   pallor  creeps. 
She's  "  indispoged "   as  all  can   see — 
By  'alf  and  'alf  she's   worse  than   he. 

There  dashes  by  a  turn-out  grand; 
'Tis  Weller  and  his  four-in-hand. 
There   Dolly  Yarden,   vainly  warned, 
Makes  most  of  beauty   most  adorned, 
And   with   her   rosiness   and   wit 
Drives   mad   the  soul   of  Tappertit. 
There   Dora,   Em'ly,   Tup  man   ride, 
With   Mantilini   perched   outside, 
And   Tapley,   giving  all  his   mind 
And   strength   to   Newman   Noggs   behind. 

Here  arm    in   arm,   fraternal,   gay, 
Two   ruddy   youngsters    touched    with   gray, 


MY   FRIENDS.  117 

Come  laughing  on.     I  know   them   well, 
The  glorious   Brothers   Cheery ble, 
Who,   from   that  fountain  fabled,  sung, 
Come  e'er  fresh-hearted,  joyous,  young. 

But  hark!     Did   not   an  infant   cry? 
Heard   I   maternal  lullaby? 
Let  creak   no  chairs — let  fall  no  pins! 
Mrs.   Micawber  stills   the   twins! 

I   see   a  hundred   startled  eyes 
Rolled   up   in   horror  and   surprise 
As   Oliver  appeals  for  more/ 
Glistening  at  yon   suspicious  door 
An  eye  all  sinister  appears — 
The  evil  eye  of  Wackford   Squeers, 
Who   flies   in   terror  from   his   post 
As   if  he   saw   a   sheeted   ghost, 
When   Turveydrop,   with   bearing  grand, 
Airs  his   deportment   near  at  hand. 

With   tone  expressive,   deep   and  grum, 
Pickwick  explodes  his   loud   "  Ha-Hum ! " 


118  MY   FRIENDS. 

Enduring  agonies  untold 
Behind  the  curtain's   falling  fold; 
While,   like  a  timid,   startled   fawn, 
A  thing  of  silk  and   lace   and    lawn, 
The  very  pink  of  ancient  girls, 
Adorned  with  yellow  paper  curls, 
Stares  wildly   as   that  frightful    sound 
Shows  trespass  on  forbidden   ground. 

Sam,   spelling  "  Weller "   with  a   "  we," 
Faithful   attends,   amuses   me; 
But  now   the  rogue   eludes   my  eye; 
He's  gone  to   "  get  a  alibi "/ 
I   blame  him   not  nor   wonder   more, — 
There's  Mary  just  outside   the   door! 

1  feel   the   touch  of  little  Nell, 
A  thing  of  gentle   spirit  spell, 
Upon  my  heart.     Now   I   espy 
The   "  willin   Barkis  "  driving  by. 
For   me  the   "  Chimes "    unceasing   ring — 
For  me  the    Oratchits    carols  sing— 


MY   FRIENDS.  119 

While,  fitting  prayer  for   Christmas   hyiim, 
"God  bless  us   all,"   pleads   Tiny   Tim. 

All   in  a  moment  there's   a  change — 
I   see  a  lonely   mountain   range; 
Along  the   Catskills   morning   breaks — 
The  grizzled  Kip   Yan  Winkle  wakes; 
Again  he   moves,   my   room   the   scene, 
With   shadowed  glen  and  covert  green. 
He  goes,  with   anxious,   knotted   brow, 
To   dreaded  reckoning  with  his   vrow, 
Anticipating  welcome   warm 
From   tongue  and  broom   and  practiced   arm. 

I   cannot  name  them;   far  extends 
The  lengthning  line — the  cloud   of  friends, 
Who   speak   to   me  from   all   the   lands 
And  wave  to  me   saluting  hands. 
The   sages   of  all    times,  the  gray 
Philosophers,   the   wise,  the   gay, 
These   throng   the   air   about   my    head; 
By   these  my  room   is    visited. 


120  MY   FRIENDS. 

They   spoke   and   wrote  in  varying   tongue; 
Strange   peoples   on   their  accents  hung, 
With  whom   I   trace  no  touch  of  kin — 
Whose   speech   to  me  were  senseless  din. 
But   these,   my   friends,   in  every   tone 
Make   thought   and   wish   and   rapture   known; 
The  language  of  the   soul  is  one. 

So   though   I   sit  in  cloistered  cell 
Silent,   alone,   I   love  it  well. 
I   ask  no   charms  of  living  grace 
To  fill  and   decorate   the  place— 
'Tis  filled — adorned.     As  though   I   heard 
The  spaces  round  me  softly   stirred 
By   trailing  robes   and   waving   wings, 
I   know  unseen,   unspoken   things. 
1   find   elect   companionships; 
They   teach  my  heart  and   touch   my   lips. 
My  steadfast  friends   abide   with    me, 
Bright,   soul-inspiring  company! 


QUOUSQUE   TANDEM,  0  CATILINA! 


YE   feline  brutes  erotic, 

Is   there  not   some  strong  narcotic, 
Some  refined  and   rare   hypnotic, 

Some  potent   spell, 
Soothing  catnip,   helleborus, 
Anything   to   still   the   chorus 
Of   your  piercing,   wild,   sonorous 
Nocturnal  yell, 

Stirring  wrath   in   souls   pacific, 
Thwarting  agents   soporific, 
Blighting   visions   beatific 

With  horrid   din; 
Moving  even   spirits   saintly 
To   utter,   almost,   low   and   faintly, 


122        QUOUSQUE    TANDEM,  O  CATILINA? 

Words   divided  very   scantly 
From   words   of    sin? 

O  ye   brutes,   my  windows   under, 
Me  and   sleep  ye  widely  sunder. 
O   for  power,  for  once,   to    thunder 

Annihilation! 

O   for  boot-jacks   half  a  hundred — 
O   for  hand   that  never  blundered. 
Hurling,   while  the   neighbors   wondered, 

Pacification! 

O   for   catapults   to   smite  yel 
O   let   catalepsy   blight  ye! 
All   catastrophes   invite  ye, 

Cataclysmal ! 

Cataracts   be  on  ye  falling! 
Curse,   concatenate,   appalling, 
Stop  your  ghoulish   caterwauling, 

Paroxysmal ! 


VIGINTENNIAL  POEM. 

j 


»o»  TBX  CLASS  or  1857,  AUUIKST  cou.iac.     JUKI  24,  1877. 

r  I\EE   clan  Amherst    gathers    at    feet    of    the 

Mother 
With    greeting    to    Her   and    "Hail",    to   each 

other. 
From    the   "  Hub  "   of  the  world,  which   in  cul- 

ture surpasses, 

"Ilapa    Siva    TtoX.vqt'X.oiGfiolo    SaXa'fffft/S." 
From    the    Queen  of    the    West,   the    far-famed 

Chicago  — 

A   city   which   once  we   wonderingly  saw  go 
To    judgment,   in   wild   conflagration  and  horror, 
Like   that   victim   of  old,  ungodly   Gomorrah  ; 
But   which    rose   from    the   dust    right    grandly, 

as  't   were  a 


124:  VIGINTENNIAL   POEM. 

Junior   Antaeus,   touching  bosom   of   Terra ; 

From  homes  by  the  sea,  from  the  green  of  the 
prairie  ; 

From  the  fret  and  the  wear  of  the  burdens 
they  carry  ; 

Here  the  clan  Amherst  comes  and  utters  its 
slogan, 

Its  trenchers  clears  well  and  clatters  its  bro- 
gan  ; 

Sings  the  songs  of  old  time,  the  fountains  un- 
sealing 

Of  loyal,  whole-hearted,  Old  Amherst  good  feeling. 

There  seem  to  stand  by  us  the  shades  of  the 
fathers, 

The  Bradfords  and  "Winthrops,  the  Cottons  and 
Mathers, 

The  men  of  the  Mayflower  and  Plymouth  plan- 
tation, 

Who  discovered  the  Rock,  renowned  through 
the  nation — 


VIGINTENNIAL  POEM.  125 

Plymouth    Rock — of  the    same  geologic    forma- 
tion 

As   that  in  the  desert   once    smitten    by  Moses  ; 

For   I  dare  to   maintain,   whoever  opposes, 

That  the  stream   leaping  swift  from  the  ancient 
rock   riven, 

To    the    dying    with    thirst    a  refreshing,    God- 
given, 

Was   only   a   shadow   prophetic,   foretelling 

The  streams  of  rich  life  which,  perennial  welling 

From     Plymouth     Rock,    bear     inspiration     and 
blessing 

Wide  out    o'er    the  land.       I   maintain   it   con- 
fessing 

The   Pilgrims    were   men   not    recklessly   jolly, 

Who'd   have  stopped  their  ears  close  against    all 
the   folly 

Of  these  feeble  rhymes — would  have  voted  them 
evil, 

And   rated   their  author   a  child   of   the   devil. 


126  VIGINTENNIAL    POEM. 

Men  have  always  their  faults — the  Puritans 
had  'em; 

Sinned  some  for  themselves,  plus  their  sinning 
in  Adam. 

I  grant  them  severe  upon  Baptists  and  Qua- 
kers— 

Too  quick  to  believe  that  their  will  was  their 
Maker's. 

I  grant  them   unskilled  in  the  chivalrous  graces, 

"With   needless   solemnity  clouding   their  faces. 

I  grant  it  appeared  that  there  could  be  no 
reaching 

The  end  of  their  prayers  nor  yet  of  their 
preaching. 

They  were  slow  in  the  use  of  the  knees'  preg- 
nant hinges, 

With  slender  equipment  of  temper  that  cringes  ; 

I   accord  them   unknown   on   heraldry's   pages  ; 

I   sing  not  their   praises   as  wonderful   sages ; 

But  the  soul  of  their  life,  like  a  planet  in  heaven. 


V1GINTENNIAL  POEM.  127 

Shining   lustrous,  tmdimmed,   still    works    like  a 

leaven. 

No  gentle  blood  vaunted,  no  nobles  "  ray  Lorded  ", 
On   fame's    scroll    written    high,   with    splendors 

rewarded, 
Ever    reached    to    their    measure  of   daring   and 

doing, 
Or  wrought   such  a  glory  all  time  is  renewing  ! 

They     found     Plymouth     rock— they     divined 

what   was   in  it ; 

They  dared  do  their  work,  or  at  least  to  begin  it, 
With   God   for   their  witness,  the  Rock  for  their 

altar, 
And   a  purpose   too  grand  to   stumble  or  falter. 

So    when    we    search    after    the    germ     proto- 
plastic— 

The   ultimate   cause  of   our  culture    scholastic — 
We  go   to    the   Rock  and    the   Pilgrims   around 
it, 


128  VIQINTENN1AL  POEM. 

And   shout  our  "Eureka!   We've  found  it,  we've 
found  it!" 

They   built    up   their    walls  in    the  faith    that 

had   brought   'em ; 
They  prayed  every   stone  in  clear    down   to   the 

bottom ; 
For   Christ    and    the    church   and    the   glory  of 

Heaven 
All    labor   was  rendered   and   sacrifice  given. 

We  are  heirs    to   their  faith,  their  hopes   and 

endeavors; 
To   their    place  in    the    line,   their  hold   on   the 

levers 
By  which   to    bring    down    the  tall    bastions  of 

evil, 
And    raze    them,    dishonored,    to    earth's    dusty 

level. 

Our   Amherst's   a   child  of  the  Puritan  spirit, 
And  proud  of    the  right  in  the  Rock  to  inherit; 


VIG1NTENNIAL    POEM.  120 

Of  the   share   that    she    holds    in    work   of    the 
fathers — 

The   Huntingtons,   Kobinsons,  Sewalls  and  Math- 
ers. 

Her  honors   come    thickly — she   wears    them    se- 
renely; 

A   weakling   no  longer,  her  port   is   all   queenly! 

Her  sons  call  her  blessed — weave  wreaths  for  her 
forehead — 

Speak  her    praise   in   all   zones,    from    frigid    to 
torrid. 

No   longer   her  field  is   one   narrowed   and   shut 
in — 

Not   a   door   stands   ajar   but  she's   presently  got 
in: 

The   land,  east  and  west,  becomes  her  possession 

By   right   apostolic   of    Pilgrim    succession. 

She    has    come    to    her    crown,   proportioned    to 
wear   it 

By   the   recognized   right   of  learning  and  merit. 
9 


130  VIGINTENNIAL    POEM. 

Here,  sons  of  old  Amherst,  \re  loyally  muster; 
With   pride   and   affection    together  we   cluster 
Round     one*  whom    to    see     is     an     auspicious 

omen — 
A   host    though   a  guest — venerabile  nomen! 

Time   was    when    with    fear    we    beheld    him 

and  trembling; 
When     a    glance   of   his  eye     shot   through    all 

dissembling; 
When   he    called,   and    we    rose,    with    blushing 

and   stammer, 

To  offer   new  views  of  translation  and  grammar  ! 
When,   after  linguistical    vaulting  and    tumble, 
We   took  our    seats,   punctured   and    angry,  but 

humble. 

Our  cheek,   if  we    had    it,   availed   not   a  tittle, 
For  we  knew   that  he  knew  that  we  knew  but 

little. 


*    Professor  W.  8.  Tyler,  the  veteran  head  of  the  Greek  department  of 
the  college. 


VIGINTENNIAL   POEM.  131 

In  vain  did  we  trust  interlining  and  "pony"  — 
He  always  detected  the  part  that  was  Bohny,  * 
And  made  us  feel  this  was  no  matter  to  sin 

in  — 
Yery   much,   I   suppose,   like    a  fly  with    a   pin 

in! 

We    wandered    with    him    o'er    the    Caucasus 

mountains, 

Abundant   in  horrors   and  ice-water  fountains, 
"Where  lay  poor  Prometheus,  whose  surname  was 

"Vinctus"! 

Vainly  wishing  to   be  Prometheus  extinctus! 
'Twas  a  play,  I  believe,   for  a  low  Greek   "thay- 


'Twas   little  like  play   to   the  Freshman  transla- 

tor. 

What  scandalous  scanning  old  Aeschylus  put  in! 
'Twas   a  muddle  all   through   when   we  got  oui 

foot   in. 


*     Students  will  remember  the  part  that  Bohn'8  Clawrical  Library  played 
In  the  recitation  room. 


132  VIGINTENNIAL    POEM. 

Where   Athens   spreads   over  the  Mount  Lyca- 

bettus, 
Where,  in  the  near  view,  stands  the  honied  Hy- 

mettus, 

Where   Socrates,   walking   unshod   in    his    glory, 
Flung  interrogation   points   out,   con   amore, 
We   all   fell   into  line  and  joined  the  procession, 
And  gave   the   Socratic   idea  an   expression, 
So  subtle,  so   dextrous,   so   Grecian   in   spirit, 
The  master  himself  would  have  gloried  to  hear  it! 

And    one    thing   I   know — that   if,   in    the  far 

ages, 

Our  professor  shall  meet  that  foremost  of  sages. 
Who   married   Xanthippe  for  the  good  it  would 

do   him 
To  let  her  invective  and   tirade   pursue   him, 

He'll   seek  out   the   sage  with  the  query,  "  Now 
what   is 

*Your   name  up  above,   Socrates  or  Socra/ites"? 


*Thc  Professor  was  Implored,  when    in    Athens,  not  to  say   Socrates, 
bnt  to  adopt  the  later  pronunciation,  Socra/ttes. 


VIGINTENNIAL    POEM.  133 

With   the   science    of   one    who'd    often    been 

through   it, 

The  professor  discoursed   on   "  Ilium  fuit  "  / 
And    looked    down    from    his    chair,    like  Jove 

from   Mount   Ida, 

To  watch  lest  a  skulker,  all  deftly,  should  hide  a 
Small  beast  of  burden  under  lee  of  the  benches, 
As  Greeks  of  old  time  built  their  horse  in  the 

trenches. 

With    him    so    renowned,    the    blind    poet    ot 

Scio, 

(Unless   inspirations   more   recent  from   Clio 
Should   declare   him   a  native   of   ancient    Ohio) 
We   laid   siege  to   Troy,   though   our   feet  halted 

sadly, 

And   rugged   hexameters   hectored   us   madly ; 
Saw    the    Trojans    fall   fast,   like    beasts    in    the 

shambles, 

For  Helen,  the  fairest  and  frailest  of  damsels, 
Who   had'nt   a   redingote,  no,  nor   a  bustle; 


134  VIGINTENN1AL    POEM. 

No  point  applique,  nor  a  silk   dress  to  rustle, 
Nor  a  pair  of  Burt's   shoes,  nor  a  Harper's  Ba- 
zar— 
Not  much  of  a  woman  to  stir  up  a  great  war ! 

The  twang  of  a  bow-string  that  told  of  Apollo 
Rang  oft  in  our  ears,  and  as  often  would  follow 
The  giant  exploits  of  those  heroes  in  battle — 
The  ring  of  the  sword   and  the  javelin's  rattle 
On  helmet    and    shield.      And  if    e'er  a  brave 

goddess, 
With   a  heart  beating  fast   beneath    her    mailed 

bodice, 

Had  heard  us  describing  her  cunning  and  valor, 
Had    seen    our    nne    frenzy,     and     marked    our 

deep  pallor, 
She'd  have    dropped    a   salt    tear,    quick    wiping 

her  Hue  eye, 
As    she    sighed,    "  I    was    there,    yes!      Magna 

pars  fui" 


VIGINTEXXIAL   POEM.  135 

We  saw  the  great  chieftains,  the  mighty  Ajaxes, 
Hurl    their    death-dealing    spears    and    brandish 

their   axes, 
And   the  speeches  of  Jove   and   Juno    and   Ve- 

nus, 

We  and   the  professor  translated   between    us  I 
When    Thetis'    grim    son,   without    reason    or 


Gave   Hector    the    spear-thrust    that    vanquished 

the   city; 
When   Hecuba's  plaint  and   Andromache's   weep- 

ing 

Smote  the  air  with  a  grief  too  bitter  for  keeping, 
We   could  not  but  see    our    professor    was   hu- 

man— 
With   a  brave,   manly  heart,   but  tender  as   wo- 

man. 

As  the  glass   searches  out  the  fashion  of  Saturn, 
So   the  contact  of   years  disclosed  his   true  pat- 

tern ; 


136  VIG1NTENNIAL    POEM. 

So  we  got  through  his  masks,  one   after  another, 
Until   we   beheld   him    a   man   and  a   brother 
To   trust*  and   believe  in   with  young   men's   de- 
votion— 
To  welcome  to-night  with  all  grateful  emotion. 

And    now  I   will    say,    even    though    our   sage 

Nestor 

Is  growing   uneasy,   no   doubt   distressed  for 
A  chance  to  apply  the  old-time  college  cut-off— 
With  a    solemn    "  Pause   there ! "    this    exercise 

shut   off— 

I  will  say  of  him  who  now  sits  there  before  us, 
What   my  heart    bids   me  say — what    you'll   say 

in  chorus  : 

Long,   long    may  he  live,   to    old   Amherst    a 

blessing, 

Until    our    sons,  reverent,   shall    round    him   be 
pressing, 


VIGINTENNIAL    POEM.  137 

Learning  truth  from  his  lips  as  age  o'er  him 
gathers, 

With  a  zest  and  delight  surpassing  their  fa- 
thers. 

And  when  late  he  goes,  may  his  mantle  and 
spirit 

Him  clothe  and  imbue  who  his  place  shall  in- 
herit; 

And  Socrates  tell  him,  just  at  the  bright  por- 
tal, 

"  I've  waited  and  hungered  to  see  thee  immor- 
tal!" 

We   surround    him     again,   with  greeting  and 

gladness, 
But    an    undertone    blends    and    trembles    with 

sadness ; 
There   is   light  on  the  scene,    but   shadows  float 

over; 
Men     were    who    are    not,    and     our    memories 

hover 


138  VIGINTENNIAL    POEM. 

Round    the  scenes   of  old   time  with  figures  and 
faces 

Which   have  vanished  away  from  desolate  places; 

The   altars    still    stand    with   their    incense    still 
burning, 

But   strange  look   the    priests   to    the    wand'rers 

returning. 

"We  gratefully   think   of   men    earnest,   forgiv- 
ing* 

Who   have   slept   and  awaked  in  the  land  of  the 
living, 

Who    bore    with    our     faults,    effervescence    and 
rudeness, 

Who  drew  us  away  from  our  juvenile  crudeness, 

And  helped  us  to  rise  toward  the  truer  and  bet- 
ter; 

To  each   and   to   all  we  are  each  of   us  'debtor. 

We     honored     them     living — shall     lion  or    them 
ever, 

And  thankfully   claim,   after   crossing    the    river, 


VIGINTENNIAL  POEM.  139 

Our   Hitchcock   and   Snell,   our   Stearns  and   our 

Haven — 
Men   faithful   on  earth  and  welcomed  to  Heaven. 


My  classmates,   Brothers  of   the  long  agol 
The  flood  of   years  with  its  resistless   flow 
Has  borne  us  on.     Not  now  with  youthful  grace 
And  untried   sinew,   stand  we   where  the  race 
Begins.     Two   decades   bring  us   far  along   ' 
To   summit  levels  and   the  crowding   throng 
Of  busy   men — not  now  to   stand   and   see 
What  the  requirement  or  reward  may   be, 
Not  now   to  gird  us  freshly  for  the   strife — 
The  long  endurance  and   the   cost  of  life— 
As   when  we  started  in   the  years   behind, 
Our  varied   fitness   and   our  spheres   to   find. 
Not  now  the   problem    what   we   are    to    be 
Or    what   to   do.     Not  now   to   bend   the  knee 
And   ask,   "  O   Lord,   what   work   hast  Thou  for 
me?" 


140  VIGINTENNIAL    POEM. 

But   asking,   rather,   to   be   strong  and    wise 
To  do   the  work   that  round   about   us  lies; 
Beneath   the  glowing  of  the    midday   sun 
To   urge  the  battle   that  is   well  begun — 
To   know  their  joy  who   sure,   obtaining,   run. 

The  laureate  poet,   fifty  years   gone   by, 
"Waved  graceful   back,  from   those   about   to   die, 
A  salutation.     Though   we   stand  not  now 
So   near   the   hoary   mountain's   sunlit   brow, 
We  catch   the   "  Hail "   of   voices  on   before. 
And   eager  hosts,   oncoming  evermore, 
Call  from   behind.     These    voices  now  converge 
Our  steps   to  quicken   and   our  zeal   to   urge, 
For  sake  of   those   who  follow  in  our  lead- 
in  sight  of   those  between   us  and    the   dead— 
That  we,   with  manhood's   strength  and    tire    of 

youth, 

May  do  good    battle   in   behalf   of   truth. 
And   win,   before   the  gathered    witness-cloud, 
The  proudest  glory   unto   man    allowed — 


VIGINTENNIAL    POEM. 


141 


The  glory   whose   supreme  and  glad   award 
Is  the    "Well    done"   and    "Welcome"   of   the 
Lord! 


I 


SIGHT  THROUGH  TEARS. 


TT1ARLY,  alone,  from  shortened  rest, 
-*— ^    The  woman   of   the  Lord   so   blest, 
Upheld,  enlightened,   comforted, 
Went  out  to   see  where   He  was   laid. 

She  came,  and   lo!   a  new  surprise, 
In   the  dim   morning,   met  her  eyes; 
The  stone,   so   set  and   sealed,  behold! 
Back  from   its  place  was   strangely  rolled, 
And  He  was  gone;    O   mocking  fate! 
O  woman,   crushed   and  desolate, 
To  whom  the  solace   is  denied 
To  weep  her  sacred   dead  beside  ! 

Stunned,   smitten,   fearful,    over-cast, 

She  wondering,  trembling,   fled   in   haste, 


SIGHT    THROUGH  TEARS, 

Bereaved   and  agonized   to   say, 

"  The  Lord — they've   taken   Him   away  ! " 

They   heard,   His   startled,   chosen    few, 
Amazed — and   she   that  bore  Him   too; 
Heard    with   alarm   that   throbbing  word, 
"  I   know  not  where   they've  laid   the   Lord  1 " 

Quick  at   the  tidings   Peter    ran, 

Eager,   impetuous,   like   the  man, 

Pushed,  in   the  gloaming,   through   the  door, 

Saw  laid-off   clothes   and   nothing   more, 

And   turned   away.     But   Mary   stood, 

As  in    the   stress   of  orphanhood, 

And  wept  for   Him   she   saw   not;    then 

She   peered  into   the  crypt  again  ; 

And,   as  if  tears   her  eyes  had  cleared, 
Dissolving   all  that   interfered 
With  sight  of   forms  unseen,   divine, 
She  saw   two   angels  sit  and   shine; 
Then,   questioning   much   and   sore   afraid, 
Stepped  backward,   with   averted  head, 


144  SIGHT    THROUGH    TEARS. 

And   saw   the  Lord  who   there   had    slept, 
Shown   first   to   her   who   stood   and   wept 
Near  by   the   tomb  ;    waited   alone, 
When   Peter  and   the  rest  were  gone, 
And  sorrowed  for   the  Crucified, 
That  rifled   resting-place  beside. 

O   Chrism  blest   of  loving   tears, 
How   often   still,  through   thee   appears 
The   grace   of  spirit  forms   divine, 
Who  by  our  dead   still  sit  and   shine  ! 

Our  eyes   like   Peter's   feel   thy    touch — 
Eyes   curious,  questioning  over-much — 
And  we   see  angels,   where   before, 
Was   emptiness   and   nothing  more. 

Nay !    Better,   sweeter,   gladder  still, 

Our  darkened   souls   with   light  to   till, 

We  see   the  Lord,  not   lost   nor   dead. 

But   living,  risen  as    He    said  ; 

In   valleys   over-shadowed   found, 

Kevealed   through   tears  and   rainbow-crowned ! 


THE  MOTHER'S  SONG. 


l^TESTLING   so  gracefully, 
-*•  ^    Sleeping   so   peacefully, 

My   darling,   my  dove; 
Saviour   approvingly, 
Tenderly,   lovingly 

Look  from   above. 

Eyes   that   so   merrily, 
Pleasantly,   cheerily 

Sparkled   and   shone; 
Eyes   that   all   tearfully, 
Wonderingly,   fearfully 

Viewed   the  unknown; 


10 


THE    MOTHER'S    SONG. 

Tongue   that  so  wittily, 
Saucily,   prettily 

Prattled   at   will  ; 
Prattled   untiringly, 
Mother  admiringly 

Listening  still; 

Month   that  appealingly, 
Touchingly,   feelingly 

Trouble  did   tell; 
Mouth   that  so   speedily 
Laughing  right  readily 

Rang  like  a  bell; 

Lips  where  in   cosiness, 
Beauty   and  rosiness 

Sweet  kisses  hide; 
Lips   where  disdainfully, 
Pettishly,  painfully, 

Passion   did  bide; 


THE    MOTHER'S    SONG.  147 

Hands  that  all  beautiful, 
Teachable,  dutiful. 

Fondled  and  played; 
Hands  that  so  skillfully, 
Secretly,  willfully, 

Law   disobeyed ; 

Feet  that  so  lightsomely, 
Trippingly,  blithesomely, 

Sported   and  danced ; 
Feet  whose   swift   cheeriness 
Wore  into   weariness 

As  day  advanced; 

Nestling  so  peacefully, 
Carelessly,   gracefully, 

Are  ye   to-night; 
Quietly,    trustfully, 
Silently,  restfully 

"Waiting  for  light. 


148  THE    MOTHER'S    SONG. 

Mother   bends   over   thee, 
Kisses   fond   cover   thee, 

Fairest   that  lives, 
Lovable,   beautiful ! 
All   that's   undutiful 

Mother  forgives. 

Rest  in   security, 
Image   of   purity, 

My  darling,  my  dove; 
God's  mercy  flow  to  thee; 
Angels  speak  low  to  thee; 

Keep  thee  in  love. 


A      PLANT  all  beautiful  and  sweet  and   rare, 
•*•  •*•  Sheltered   from    storm  and    blighting 

eastern    air, 
Under  my  hand  and   eye  grew  tall   and   fair. 

The   lifted  flower-cup   was   an  airy   throne, 

Of  beauty  ravishing  and  rarely  known; 

In  pride  of  life  and  strength  my  fav'rite  shone. 

I  once  forgot  it — for  one  treacherous  hour — 
There  came  a  blast  of  winter  and  no  power 
Could  give  me  back  my  blasted,  fallen  flower! 

And   I   was   as   that  flower;   a  loving   hand 
Flung  shelter   round   me   as  affection  planned; 
Shielded,   upborne,    I   did  not  truly   stand, 


150  TEMPTATION. 

But,   vain   and  foolish,   I  believed  me  strong; 
I   scorned   the   souls   that   fell,  deep-stained  with 

wrong, 
And   sang,   serene,   my   idle,   boastful   song. 

*'  Why   cnrse  ye  fate   or    God,"   I   proudly   said 
To   some   who   even  lacked   for  daily  bread. 
"Why   do   your  hearts   rebel  above  your  dead?" 

I    asked    of    some    who,  through    their    blinding 

tears — 

Their   shuddering  grief  and  all  distorting  fears — 
Saw   not   the  light  that   on   the  cloud   appears. 

"  Why  give  ye   rein   to   appetite   and    lust?" 
"  Why   are  ye   false  to  honor's  sacred   trust?" 
I   asked,   as   though  not   made   of  common  dust! 

Then  came  a  change — the  want  I  had  not  known 
Came    crashing    on     me — turned    my    heart    to 

stone; 
I   cursed   the  fates   when   hunger   was   my   own. 


TEMPTATION.  151 

I    stood   rebellious   by   my   buried   love — 

I   madly   challenged   earth   and   heaven  to   prove 

That   God,   a  loving  Father,   reigns  above. 

I  yielded   soon  when  once  temptation   came; 
I    sank     with    those    I    late     contemned     with 

blame ; 
I   wore  with  them  my   covering  of  shame. 

My    thought    of    strength  was  all    a    dream— a 

lie ; 

My  blaming  words  were  hollow  mockery — 
Strong  only  in  untested  strength  was  I. 

But,   seeing  now  iny   weakness  and   my  need, 
Low   bowing  down,   I  daily,  hourly  plead, 
"  My    feet,    good    Lord,     far    from     temptation 
lead!" 

And  so  I  stand  in  vain  conceit  no  more; 
I  keep  my  guard  about  my  bosom's  door, 
Nor  judge  nor  boast,  as  in  my  pride  before. 


152  TEMPTATION. 

They    stand    secure,    who    shrink    from    sin    in 

fear; 

Trust  not  themselves,  but  keeping  ever  near 
To  Jesus'  side,   dwell  in  His  love   so  dear. 

O   blessed  Christ,   O   Lamb   without  a  spot! 
Purging  with  blood  each  marring,  sin-made  blot, 
Into  temptation,   Saviour,  lead   us  not  I 


THE  RIVER  TO  THE  NIGHT. 


O  WELCOME,    yes,    welcome,    thou    blessed 
night  1 

Thrice  welcome  art     thou   to   me; 
In   thee  I  may  go,   with  a   peaceable  flow, 
Far  on   to   the  measureless   sea — 
The  sea  that  is   waiting   for   me. 

Oh,  cruel  and  galling  the    yoke   I   wear; 
Dark  night,   I  murmur   to    thee; 

In  bondage   I  go,  with    laborious   flow, 
To  rest  in  the    welcoming   sea— 
The   sea  that  is  calling    to   me. 

O  Freedom,  glorious,   no  longer   mine, 
My  thoughts   are   ever   of  thee; 

*  Written  while  the  author  was  llviue  iu  the  valley  of  one  of  those  hard- 
worked  New  England  rivers,  of  which  so  much  is  exacted  on  the  » 
the  ocean. 


THE    RIVER    TO    THE    NIGHT. 

Ne'er  again  shall  I  know  the  rapturous  flo\fr 
That  once  marked  my  way  to  the  sea — 
The  sea  that  was  asking  for  me. 

0  music,   sweet   music,   thou   merciful    night, 

Is  thy  deep   silence   to   me; 
A   passage   of  woe   is   my  turbulent  flow 
Down,   down   to  the   sheltering  sea — 
The  sea    that  is  refuge  for  me. 

The   story   is   long   of    my   thralldom   to   wrong; 

1  cannot   portray   the   half  in   my   song. 

From    the    heart    of    the    North    into    light    I 

leaped   forth, 

As  free   as   the  bird   to  sing  through  the   earth; 
To     the     hills     with     my      voice      I      shouted, 

"  Rejoice ! " 

And   echo   caught  up  the  jubilant  noise, 
And   the    "hail"   of  the  rill    to    each   answering 

hill, 
Repeated  in   tones  that  never  were  still. 


THE   RIVER    TO    THE    NIGHT.  155 

The    trees,     as   in    love,      waved    their    banners 

above, 

And    laughed   as   I  kissed   the  feet  of  the  grove; 
Over    me,     in     my    bed,     their    branches     they 

spread, 

A   shield  from   the  sun   that  blazed  overhead. 
I  gathered   the  brooks  from  inviolate    nooks 
Of  mountain   recess   and   sentinel   rocks, 
To  journey  with   me,   as,    unbridled   and  free, 
A   child   of  delight,   I   rolled    to   the  sea. 
The  grasses    that  grew   on   either  bank  drew 
This   life   from   my   depths,   their  delicate   hue. 
The  birds  dipped  the  bill,  quickly  drinking  their 

fill, 
And    rendered    their    thanks    with    warble    and 

trill. 

I   bore   the   lillies,   sweet-scented  flotillas, 
Wafting  afar   to   hamlets   and   villas 
Breath   richly   laden    for  lover  and   maiden — 
Incense  like   that   of  morning   in   Eden. 


156  THE  RIVER    TO    THE    NIGHT. 

I    mirrored   the  grace  and   the  sportive    embrace 

Of  children  down-looking  into   my   face. 

I    toyed    with    the    wheel   of    the    merry    boy's 

mill, 

Or  swept   it   along  if  thwarting  my   will, 
Ne'er  dreaming  that  he  e'er  a   tyrant  could  be, 
To  lay   heavy  hands   and  ruthless   on   me. 
No  law   I  obeyed,  as   I   loitered   in   shade, 
Still  lying  and  dark   in   thicket   and  glade; 
With    a    frolicsome    run    till    the    journey    was 

done, 

I  played  at  bo-peep  with  the  stars  and  the  sun; 
I  crept  among  sedges,  darted  down  ledges, 
Headlong  I  leaped  on  boulders  and   wedges 
Of    rough,    riven    rock,   as,    with    laughter    and 

mock, 

I  burst  away  aught  my   progress   would  block. 
No    hard    master    ruled    me — glad,    triumphing, 

free, 
I  joyfully  journeyed   on   to   the   sea! 


THE   RIVER    TO    THE   NIGHT.  157 

But  alas!   for  the  days  and  alas!   for  the  ways 
I   sadly   recall,   regretfully   praise. 
The   light-hearted   boy,   with    impertinent    toy, 
A   monster  has   grown,   my   peace   to   destroy. 
My   freedom    has   gone,   now   a    master   I  own, 
And   wearing  his  yoke   I  murmur  and   moan. 
I   grind   in   the  mill;   I  am  broke  on  the  wheel; 
I  beat  out  my  life  on   copper  and  steel; 
The  oak,  mountain   giant,  gnarled,   defiant, 
Dismembered,   I   shape,   to  strange   uses  pliant. 
The    spindles     I    drive    and   the   looms    in    the 

hive 

Where  man  and  machine   seem   both   all  alive. 
From    dawn's    early    gray    till    the    light   fades 

away, 

A   captive  enthralled,   I   wearily  play. 
Afar   I   am  led  from  my   own   chosen   bed; 
I'm   beaten  to   foam,   to   tatters   am   shred. 
Once,   all   the  day  long,   the   bright  birds   blent 

their  song 


158  THE  RIVER    TO    THE   NIGHT. 

In   chorus   above   as   I   stole  along; 
Now   I   scarcely   can    hear   their   melodies   clear, 
So   loud   whir  the   wheels   and   rattle  their  gear. 
When  pitiful   skies,  giving  heed   to  ray  sighs., 
Pour  down   at  my   cry   unwonted   supplies, 
My  strength  comes  again.    A  brief  carnival  then 
Is  mine,   in   loss   and   disasters   of    men! 
I  burst  off   their  bands    with    Briarean    hands; 
1  choke  up   their  wheels  with  gathering  sands; 
To   their    sorrow    and    cost,    in    wealth    deluge- 
tost, 

I  madly   avenge   the  freedom  I  lost! 
Enslaved    and    oppressed,    thus    my  wrongs   are 

redressed; 

My   fury  abates — contented,   I  rest. 
Then,   worse   than   before,   cruel    tyrants    restore 
The  yoke  and  the  chain — a  captive  once   more, 
I   must  painfully  go,   bruised,  broken  and  slow, 
To   soothe  me  and   rest  in   the  ocean   below. 


THE   RIVER    TO    THE   NIGHT.  159 

Then  welcome,  yes,  welcome,  thou  blessed  night ! 
Reprieve  thou  bringest   to   me; 

In   darkness   I  know  brief   repose   as   I  go 
On,   on   to   my   home   in   the   sea — 
The   sea  that  is  thirsting  for  me. 

A  vision,   stern  vision,   thou  tyrant  man, 
Of   fate  that  hangs   over   thee! 

Time's  river  doth  go  with  hurrying    flow 
Swift,   swift  to   the   infinite  sea — 
The  sea  that  is  waiting  for  thee. 


OUTLOOK. 
18JST 


TY'E  ships   that   are   sailing   nnder   the  world, 
-*-     With   weather-worn    sails,,  with   banners  un- 
furled; 

They   gather   such   wealth  !    O,  nobody  knows 
The   treasure   they  hold — a   treasure  that   grows 
As   each  new  horizon  kisses   their  keels — 
As  each   ElDorado  splendor   reveals. 

My   fancy  oft   turns  and   eager,   to   feast 
On   spoils   late  reft  from   the   opulent   East, 
That   settle   my   ships  low  down   in   the   sea, 
As   homeward    they   sail,  deep-laden,  to  me. 

It's  far  they  have  gone — so  far  from  the  West 
The  richest   lies   hid,   the   dearest   and   best, 
And   only   the   choice,  the  wonderful,  rare, 


OUTLOOK. 

My    ships  are   enjoined   to   gather   and  bear 
To   me   as   longing   I   wait  by   the   sea, 
And   live   in   the  joy    their   coming  will   be. 

O,  fair   are   my   ships,   the   fairest   that   sail, 
Built   staunchly   to   breast   the   billow   or  gale; 
I    will   not   believe  by   whirlpools   they're   tost — 
On    any    Oharybdis   broken  and  lost, 
So   precious   are   they.       And  yet,  like  a  boy 
Elate   with  the   thought   of    swift   coming   joy, 
I'd   welcome   the   sight   of  sails  torn  and  gray- 
It's  long   since   my  ships   were   wafted   away. 

I   think — but  distance   confuses   the  eye — 
The   tips   of  tall    masts   prick   into    the   sky, 
Just  over   the   convex   breast  of  the   sea 
That  hides   the  hull   of  each   vessel  from   me. 

But  they  sink — they're  lost  now  under  the  line 
Of  vision — they   marked  no  vessels   of  mine. 
From    dream    so  joyous   I   wake   with  a  start; 
A   hope,  long  deferred,  breeds   sickness  of  heart. 
11 


162  OUTLOOK. 

But,  courage  I'll  hold ;  I'll  chide  not  their  stay ; 
They  still   ride   the   wave — sail   further   away, 
To  gladden   me   more    when   out   of   the  sea 
They   rise   'gainst   the   sky  and   hasten  to  me. 
They  steer,  I'll  be  sure,  through  intricate  straits, 
Toward   cities   unnamed,  with   glittering  gates 
Uplifted   that  forth   my   treasure   may  flow; 
Toward  harvests  unreaped   they   hurrying  go; 
Toward   shores    where  the   trees,   fruit-laden    and 

fair, 

Bend   low  to   the  hand — where   even   the   air 
Shall   carrier  be  of  all   that  is  best 
For   me   as  I  wait  and   watch   in   the   West. 

'Twould  cheer  me  to  see,  e'er  gathers  the  dark, 
One   ship   of   the  fleet — one   home-coming   bark; 
It   cannot   be   true,  O,  perish   my   fears  ! 
That   they  have  gone  down — that  ne'er  thro'  the 

years 

They,  out   of  the   morning,  sailing   will   come, 
And  anchor  again   in   the  harbor  of  home  ! 


OUTLOOK.  163 

Once   airy  creations,   beautiful,  bright, 
Were  floating   near  by  in   glad,  golden   light; 
They   seemed,  just   before,   enticing  to   stand, 
But  ever  escaped  the   grasp   of   my   hand. 
They   mocked   me.      Alas  !    I  hoped   evermore  ; 
Fruitions   of  hope   they    tauntingly   bore 
Just   out  of  my   reach,   above  and  before. 
Was   there   no   good   in   the  promises   fair 
That   kindled   my  soul   in   struggle   and   prayer  ? 
Those   airy   creations,   O,  were   they   naught, 
And  held  they  no  more  than  shadows  of  thought  ? 

Somewhere,    I    will    trust,     their    pinions    are 

furled — 

The   good   that   they   bore  is  yet  in  the   world; 
Somewhere,  far   away,  they  yet   may  be  found; 
With  blessings  they  held,  the  finder  be  crowned. 
To   whatever   clime   they,  vanishing,  fled, 
By    wave    borne    and    breeze   my    vessels    have 

sped. 
They'll  come  by  and  by — they'll  certainly  come— 


164  OUTLOOK. 

I    wait   but  a  little   to   welcome   them    home. 
All   that   escaped   me   secured   they   will    bring, 
My   gallant,   good    ships,  as  if   to  a  king. 

O,  ye   swift   winds,  that  encircle   the   sphere, 
Where   left   ye   my   ships,  so   gallant  and  dear  ( 
Their   sails  did  ye   kindly   lift   from    the  mast, 
And   till  them   and    strain  as  ye  hurried   past  ? 

O   eagle,   afloat   against   the  clear   sky, 
Unblinded   by  light  or  storm,  does  thine  eye, 
So    sweeping    and    keen,   through    distance    and 

mist 

See  a  vessel   of  mine  rise   out   of   the  East, 
Her  prow   proudly   plowing  planes  of  the    sea, 
As   she   comes   to   enrich   and   satisfy   me  ? 

The   ocean    is   blank — no   favoring   sign 
Encourages   me.       O,   venture   of   mine, 
Can   hope   so  deceive  ?      Is  everything  lost  ? 
Is  there   no  return,  the   ocean   once   crossed  't 
Some   ship  of  the  fleet,  the   least  of   them   all, 


OUTLOOK:.  165 

Might   make   her  port   though  disaster  befall 
The   many  that   sailed   so   gaily   away  ! 
Though    waters   engulf   that  goodly   array. 

Weary,  I  climb   to   the   outlook   again, 
But    vacancy   vast  broods   over   the   main  ! 
They're   coming   no   more — all   promises   fail  ; 
The   breeze   blowing   in  brings   never  a  sail  ! 

It   may   be   I've  longed  so   eagerly,  sore, 
For   good    that  never   can    visit   this   shore  ; 
That   blessing  I   craved,    the   beautiful,  rare, 
Could    never   endure   the   touch   of  our   air ; 
That   treasures   divinest   could  not   be   brought, 
But  where   they   abide  must   ever   be  sought. 
Yes,  bidden    I  am  to  go   to  the   best — 
Not   staying   but   going,  I  may   be   blest. 

So,  I  soon    shall  embark  and    sail  o'er  the  sea, 
To   find   out   my   ships,  wherever   they  be. 
They're  safe  in  sweet   havens,  sheltered  and  fair; 


166  OUTLOOK. 

I'll   find   them,  well  stored,  awaiting  me  there. 
Perchance  as   I   catch   the   opposite   tide 
And  reach   the   far  shore — that  never-seen  side — 
I'll   gain   more   than   all   I   sent  them  to  bri !!«•;, 
E'en   treasure   and    crown   befitting  a  king  ! 


